THE   ANSWERER 

BY 

GRANT  OVERTON 


The  singers  do  not  beget — only  the  Poet  begets  $ 

The  singers  are  welcomed \  understood,  appear  often  enough — 

but  rare  has  the  day  been,  likewise  the  spot,  of  the  birth  of 

the  maker  of  poems ,  the  Answerer    . 
He  has  the  pass-key  of  hearts     . 
What  can  be  answered  he  answers — and  what  cannot  be 

answered,  he  shows  how  it  cannot  be  answer*  dj 
He  is  the  Answerer. 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,    1921,    BY 
HA-RCOURT,    BRACE   AND   COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED   IN   THE   U.  S.  A.  BY 

THE    QUINN    &    BODEN    COMPANY 
RAHWAY,    N.    J. 


:  • 


JPOC 
ARTHUR  5ULLIVANT  HOFFMAN 


4 


NOTE:  I  had  intended  to  offer  here  what  I  conceive  jus 
tifies  the  large  liberties  taken  with  the  known  and  unknown 
facts  of  several  lives;  but  now  I  see  how  futile  that  must 
be.  Either  there  is  justification  or  there  is  none,  and,  if 
there  is,  the  reader  will  derive  it  for  me  from  the  work 
itself;  otherwise,  all  stands  condemned.  For  extenuation  is 
not  enough.  .  .  .  My  aim  is  to  communicate  feeling;  my 
material  is  partly  history,  my  method  is  fiction.  I  have 
hoped,  as  the  fused  result,  to  achieve  essential  truth. 

GBANT  OVERTON. 

Patchogue,  Long  Island,  New  York. 

1920-1921. 


THE  ANSWERER 


. 


PART  ONE 
A  MIRACLE  IN  FIFTH  MONTH 


IT  was,  oh,  so  fine  a  morning — so  clean,  sweet,  bright;  with 
the  thick  sand  of  the  country  road  compacted  by  early 
showers.  The  young  man  who  sauntered  along  (springiness 
a-plenty  in  each  leisured  footfall)  stopped  again  and  again 
to  take  deep  breaths.  The  breeze  stirred  his  thick,  black, 
lustrous  hair.  Broad  shoulders,  well-squared,  proportioned 
his  good  height.  A  carelessly  adjusted  suit  of  homespun 
hung  as  if  ready  at  a  twitch  to  uncover  the  Greek  symmetry 
of  satin'd  flesh  and  muscle.  But  the  soul  of  this  young 
man  was  in  the  eyes  he  lifted  from  the  road  to  the  blue  and 
white  heaven — gray-blue  eyes  as  direct  as  the  day. 

The  day  was  April's,  or  Fourth  Month's,  but  the  hour 
was  his  own,  he  told  himself.  He  cried  out  his  perfect  pos 
session  of  it,  dwelt  upon  its  wonder;  in  a  loud  voice,  half- 
shouted,  half-sang: 

"  Sunshine:  grass,  the  mark  of  earth's  annual  adolescence: 
tender-budding  sprouts  of  trees:  air  which  quickens  the  sap 
and  the  blood — you're  all  a  part  of  myself!  And  I  am 
some  part  of  you!  To  eternity!  Eternity?  Why,  it's 
now!  There's  nothing  worthier  than  all  this,  I  guess,  to  be 
eternal!  " 

He  was  silent;  then  went  on,  aloud: 

3 


4  THE   ANSWERER 

"  You're  mine,  you  living,  beautiful  world!  But  you're 
any  one's  who  goes  forth.  You're  a  child's  as  much  as  a 
man's;  yes,  more  than  a  man's!  I — it's  hard  to  get  that 
said  right;  said  full,  complete,  up  to  the  hilt!  If  a  fellow 
could  say  that  right  what  a  poet  he'd  be!  Oh  ...  I  wish 
I  could  say  it!  Not  just  to  utter  something  pretty  sounding 
but  to  let  the  truth,  the  beauty,  the  wonder  of  all  living 
breathe  out  in  words,  be  triumphantly  voiced!  " 

He  swung  his  arms  in  an  awkward,  enthusiastic  gesture 
of  liberation.  He  began  to  speak,  measuredly,  in  a  rhythm 
which  varied  the  monotony  of  his  easy  walking  gait. 

"  There  was  a — child — went  forth — -each  day, 
And  the  objects  he  looked  upon,  stirring  wonder,  love, 
Each  and  every  object  he  saw,  that  thing  he  became  .  .  . 
For  a  day,  for  an  hour,  for  centuries  lived  in  an  instant. 
The  earliest  lilacs,  the  swelling  grass,  the  bird  singing, 
The  young  lamb  just  born  in  Third  Month,  all  became  part 

of  him 
And  he  a  part  of  them,  with  wonder — and  pity — and  love  .  .  ." 

His  headshake  had  no  trace  of  impatience,  seemed  to  de 
note  only  an  imperfect  satisfaction ;  the  sigh  which  followed 
was  brimmed  with  happiness.  "  I  am  not  bom  yet,"  he 
consoled  himself. 

Life  begins,  may  be  lived  and  end  before  birth.  Birth? 
That  is  either  an  accident  or  a  miracle,  perhaps  both  (he 
thought) — almost  certainly  both!  But  this  day  is  for  liv 
ing!  Seven  or  seventy,  or  thrice  seven  (my  own  age  on  a 
nearing  anniversary),  birthed  or  unbirthed,  young  animal 
or  creature  leading  a  merely  vegetative  existence,  there  re 
poses  on  me,  Walt  Whitman,  no  duty,  no  burden  of  obliga 
tion  of  any  sort.  The  world,  or  womb,  of  Outdoors  encloses 


THE   ANSWEREIR  5 

me,  invites  me  to  feed  and  grow;  nourishes,  protects  me, 
encourages  my  tiny  stirrings  and,  no  doubt,  rejoices  in  them, 
rejoices  that  the  child  quickens  this  day  (so  bright!  so 
sweet!)  of  Fourth  Month.  .  .  . 

The  road,  winding  between  two  hillsides,  unfolded  upon  a 
valley  checkered  with  a  pattern  in  young  wheat  and  plowed 
soil  and  moving  undulantly  to  the  feet  of  the  Long  Island 
hills.  In  the  foreground,  on  a  little  rise,  in  a  clearing  among 
slender  white-oaks,  stood  the  schoolhouse,  small,  oblong, 
with  little-paned  windows  and  a  hood  over  the  bell.  For 
all  its  paintless  boards,  the  weathered  little  edifice  had  the 
air  of  a  citadel,  and  gave  forth  a  suggestion  of  consolidat 
ing,  somehow,  the  common  interest  of  scattered  and  isolated 
lives — humble  lives  that  had  yet  a  collective  import  and  a 
ponderable  sum.  When,  in  the  fresh,  sparkling  morning,  the 
small  iron  bell  oscillated  under  its  hood,  sending  a  thin  clang- 
clang!  across  to  the  forested  hillsides,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
valley  were  speaking,  as  if  a  voice  were  reciting  the  creed 
which  inspired  the  dwellers  on  half  a  hundred  random  farms. 
Women  busy  in  wide  kitchens  or  scattering  corn  for  hungry 
fowls  sometimes  paused  a  moment,  listening  to  the  sound 
of  the  distant  bell;  but  the  men  hoeing  in  the  fields,  pro 
tected  by  broad-brimmed  hats  from  the  sun's  blaze  and 
mounting  heat,  went  impassively  on  with  their  work,  hear 
ing  but  unheeding. 

The  first  stroke  would  cause  boys  and  girls  along  the 
upland  road  to  stop  a  game  of  leap-frog  or  to  clutch  with 
sudden  firmness  the  shoes  and  stockings  they  were  carry 
ing.  Mr.  Whitman,  the  teacher,  had  arrived  at  the  school- 
house.  He  would  ring  for  perhaps  five  minutes  and  then 


6  THE  ANSWERER 

wait  tolerantly  for  maybe  five  minutes  more.  When  you're 
young  it  ain't  so  awful  hard  to  run  a  mile,  with  panting 
lapses,  in  ten  minutes;  but  when  time  must  be  taken  to  put 
on  shoes  and  stockings,  fifteen  minutes  is  lots  better.  At 
tendance  in  school  barefoot  isn't  sanctioned;  on  the  other 
hand,  a  pair  of  shoes  is  a  costly  article,  made  to  measure  and 
obtainable  only  once  a  year  when  the  traveling  cobbler 
comes  by  the  farm. 

However,  Mr.  Whitman — or  "  Walt "  as  all  the  boys 
called  him — was  always  easy  with  you.  He  never  birched. 
Some  of  the  older  boys  had  made  a  mistake  about  him  at 
the  beginning  of  the  winter  term — when  farmwork  was 
done  and  fathers  were  reluctantly  acceding  to  mothers'  de 
mands  for  more  schoolin'  for  the  eldest.  Yes,  some  of  the 
older  boys  had  mistooken  Teacher's  mild,  kind  of  easy-goin' 
way,  and  offered  to  wrastle  him. 

One  after  another  he  had  downed  the  three  sons  of  Free- 
gift  Terry  so  there  had  been  no  time  for  the  geography  lesson 
that  morning.  And  afterward  he  had  shooken  hands  with 
the  Terry  boys,  all  except  the  youngest  his  own  age  or  older 
and  all  as  tall  and  heavy  as  himself.  And  the  oldest  Terry 
had  said:  "You're  Teacher,  Mr.  Whitman!  "  and  Mr. 
Whitman  had  answered:  "  Call  me  Walt;  and  all  you  boys 
and  girls  just  forget  I'm  Teacher  and  remember  we're  all  of 
us  out  to  learn  something!  School's  dismissed.  Everybody, 
shoo!  "  Then  the  youngest  Terry  had  rung  the  bell  so  hard 
the  rope  broke. 

How  Walt  had  laughed!  But  he  was  always  ready  to 
laugh,  and  he  joined  in  all  their  games  with  the  boys  and 
seemed  mostly  to  hate  going  indoors.  All  through  the  cold 


THE   ANSWERER  7 

of  winter,  with  heavy  snows,  at  least  one  window  had  been 
kept  open  in  the  schoolroom;  though  owing  to  the  attitude 
of  parents,  Walt  had  to  ask  the  class  not  to  say  anything, 
home,  about  the  window.  The  class  agreed,  liking  the  touch 
of  mischief  though  indifferent  to  Walt's  new-fangled  idea 
about  something  he  called  "  ventilation."  Nobody  knew 
what  ventilation  was,  but  Walt  said  it  sharpened  your  senses 
just  as  study  sharpened  your  mind.  Anyway,  the  stove  in 
the  middle  of  the  schoolroom,  kept  redhot  with  wood  the 
boys  had  stacked  against  the  back  wall  clear  up  to  the  ceil 
ing,  threw  out  a  steady  warmth;  you  could  always  move  up 
closer  to  it. 

Winter  was  by;  this  was  the  time  of  spring  plowing  and 
planting.  The  three  Terrys  and  all  of  the  older  boys  were 
dropping  out  to  renew  the  work  of  the  farm.  Even  the 
younger  children  would  be  needed  "  to  home  "  in  a  few 
weeks;  school  was  practically  over.  It  was  hard  to  go  in 
doors,  harder  to  stay  there;  and  Walt  had  a  way  of  asking, 
with  a  laugh:  "  Well,  boys  and  girls,  shall  we  have  a  recita 
tion  or  a  recess-itation?  "  He  was  always  joking,  kind 
of! 

So  ran  the  youthful  summary,  often  recapitulated,  lightly 
touched  upon,  a  point  here  and  an  instance  there  as  the  pu 
pils,  coming  by  ones,  twos  and  threes  out  of  the  valley, 
gradually  coalesced,  mornings,  on  the  school  road,  where  it 
turned  off  from  the  Smithtown  road  just  above  Rumsey 
Platt's  store.  Sometimes  Teacher  Walt,  a  little  later  than 
usual,  would  come  swinging  along,  and  finding  all  the  nine 
boys  and  seven  girls  fore-gathered,  would  cry:  "  Going  to 
let  Mr.  Platt  teach  ye  to-day?  "  At  the  sound  of  their 


8  THE   ANSWERER 

mirth  Rumsey  Platt  would  appear  in  the  door,  whicli  opened 
on  a  high  stoop  reached  by  fourteen  steps — a  gnarled  old 
man  past  eighty  who,  as  a  lad  of  eighteen,  had  taken  part 
in  the  disastrous  battle  of  Long  Island,  falling  a  prisoner  to 
the  British  bloody  coats.  With  bright,  unwinking  eyes  the 
storekeeper  would  look  over  the  lot  of  them,  not  a  muscle 
of  his  lean  face  moving,  though  in  some  mysterious  way  he 
was  all  the  time  chawing  his  tobacco.  A  silence  would  fall ; 
then,  ejecting  suddenly  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth  some 
of  the  delectable  juice,  Rumsey  Platt  would  exclaim,  his^ 
voice  a  quavery  treble: 

"  Go  'long  and  larn,  yo'  uns!  When  I  was  your  age,  I 
was  lamed  with  a  bagonet!  " 

This  contrast  and  striking  reminiscence  elicited,  invari 
ably,  a  full  moment  of  respectful  silence  and  regard.  The 
veteran  slipping  inside  the  store  after  a  brief  glance  at  the 
weather,  a  buzz  would  rise  as  the  group  moved  schoolward 
— one  of  the  older  boys  was  telling,  for  the  nth  time,  of  see 
ing  the  livid  streak  made  by  the  blade  of  the  Britisher's 
bayonet,  grazing  ol'  Rumsey  Platt's  arm,  back  in  '76.  An' 
in  '12,  though  nigh  onto  sixty,  he'd  been  a  cap'n  in  the 
m'litia.  .  .  . 

Thus  on  many  a  morning;  but  not  on  this  glorious  day 
and  morning  of  April,  1840.    Passing  Platt's*  Store,  striding 
along  the  up-road,  Walt  came  upon  none  of  the  youngsters. 
The  circumstance  went  unremarked,  for  his  thoughts  were 
elsewhere;  but  when  he  reached  the  schoolhouse  the  sligh 
oddity  of  encountering  no  one,  of  finding  no  pupil  alre^ 
on  hand,  caught  his  attention. 


THE   ANSWERER  9 

He  grasped  the  rope  and  the  bell,  like  a  voice  reciting  an 
immutable  and  simple  gospel,  sent  its  unchanging  intona 
tion  floating  over  the  valley. 

After  several  moments  he  rested,  looking  down  the  road. 
It  was  empty.  Of  a  sudden  he  laughed  aloud  and  heartily, 
the  laugh  dying  into  a  succession  of  chuckles.  So  this  was 
the  windup!  Even  his  two  eight-year-olds  hadn't  put  in  an 
appearance. 

"Hurrah!"  Teacher,  liberated  from  school,  turned  a 
handspring  at  the  edge  of  the  road  in  front  of  the  school- 
house.  With  a  last  truant  glance  along  the  deserted  road, 
Walt  climbed  a  boundary  ditch  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
highway  and  struck  off,  in  a  rambling  fashion,  through  the 
woods  to  the  south,  on  the  side  away  from  the  valley. 


Later  he  would  return,  of  course,  for  there  were  a  few 

personal  belongings — clothes,  a  notebook  and  two  or  three 

books — at  Freegift  Terry's  farm,  his  last  sojourning-place 

in  the  routine  of  boarding  round.    Then  he  wanted  to  see 

again  young  Freegift  Terry,  two  years  his  junior  and  the 

third  of  the  farmer's  three  sons.     Besides  the  old  people 

and  the  three  boys,  there  was  only  Esther,  about  seventeen. 

The  farmer  would  also  be  looking  for  him  sooner  or  later  to 

pay  him  the  $20  currency  due  and  payable  for  the  teacher's 

services  since  the  first  of  the  year.  .  .  .  However,  all  that 

te-  could  wait.    He  must  leave  the  valley,  dear  place  though 

t  was ;  must  go  somewhere,  see  new  faces,  sail  again  on  the 

reat  South  Bay,  strip  and  bathe  in  the  surf  where  the  At- 


io  THE   ANSWERER 

lantic  met  the  white-gray  beach!  And  meet  the  people,  talk 
with  the  busy  farmer-fathers  and  the  lovable,  gentle,  hard 
working  mothers  who  kept  spruced  and  shining  the  wide 
kitchens  of  the  large,  old  farmhouses.  And  the  young  men, 
and  the  wild,  half -savage  but  dependable  baymen,  a  race  of 
themselves!  Vagabonds  who  slept  under  hedges,  itinerant 
peddlers,  wandering  preachers,  the  frequenters  of  roadside 
taverns — he  must  rub  up  against  them  all;  must,  must! 
They  had  such  rich  stores  of  nature,  showed  such  variety  of 
traits,  were  so  finely  human,  so  good,  so  bad,  so  mixed  and 
so  zealous;  each  living  well  or  ill  with  such  a  strong  relish! 
And  then,  the  Outdoors!  Like  a  vast,  never- failing  sweet 
ener  and  purifier,  with  exercise  to  knit  the  muscles  and 
varied  beauty  to  delight  the  mind! 

For  a  brief  while  his  intention  was  arrested  by  the  loop- 
back  of  his  thoughts  to  Huntington,  his  own  town,  truly, 
since  at  West  Hills,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  stood  the 
house  in  which  he  had  been  born.  And  in  Huntington  was 
the  little  journal,  the  newspaper  he  had  founded  a  year  and 
a  half  earlier,  while  teaching  school  and  in  intervals  of 
teaching  school.  It  was  called  The  Long  Islander  because 
that  was  what  it  gave  him  the  finest  pleasure  to  call  himself 
— "  Walt  Whitman,  Long  Islander."  Or,  at  times,  in  some 
connections,  he  preferred  the  old  Indian  name  for  the  Island 
— Paumanok,  fish-shaped  Paumanok.  .  .  .  Huntington? 
The  Long  Islander? 

He  stood,  hesitating,  and  the  breeze,  coming  from  the 
south,  settled  his  answer.  It  brought  him,  or  he  fancied  it 
did,  a  whiff  of  salt  from  the  sedge  meadows,  the  bay  and 
the  ocean.  How  matchless  the  Atlantic  would  look  this 


THE   ANSWERER  11 

morning!  Quickly  he  thrust  his  hand  in  his  pocket  to  make 
sure,  clapped  hold  of  pages  cut  out  of  one  of  his  books,  and 
drew  them  forth.  A  play  from  his  volume  of  Shakespeare, 
but  which?  Ah,  The  Tempest!  Of  a  shipwreck,  an  evil 
monster,  a  good  spirit,  and  young  lovers — and  all  on  an 
island.  This  must  be  saved  for  the  beach — fit  surroundings 
— for  it  makes  such  a  huge  difference  where  you  read! 
Granted  something  sound,  ripe-thoughted  and  powerfully- 
expressed,  Walt  said  to  himself,  where  you  read  counts  for 
more  than  what. 

About  to  thrust  back  the  loose  pages,  his  eye  caught  on 
some  of  the  fine-print  lines  and  he  checked  his  hand  while 
he  read  them  first  silently  and  then,  in  a  deliberate,  moved 
voice: 

"  The  isle  is  full  of  noises, 

Sounds  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears ;  and  sometime  voices, 
That,  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 
Will  make  me  sleep  again :  and  then,  in  dreaming, 
The  clouds  methought  would  open,  and  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me." 

The  words  of  Prospero?  Of  Ariel?  He  looked  to  see; 
and  the  delight  of  the  touching  relation  was  deepened  for 
him  on  discovering  that  they  were  the  words  of  the  evil 
monster,  Caliban. 

3 

Out  of  evil,  good,  was  his  first  reflection;  but  then  he  saw 
that  took  him  but  a  little  way.  It  begged  the  old,  old  ques 
tion  of  what  is  good,  what  evil?  The  lusts  of  the  flesh, 
for  example;  the  keen  appetites  which  asserted  themselves 


12  THE   ANSWERER 

so  inextinguishably  in  Walt  Whitman; — could  any  natural 
appetite  be  evil?  Some  taught  that  the  evil  lay  not  in  the 
appetite  but  in  its  gratification;  but  what  was  an  appetite 
for?  Doubtless  any  indulgence  should  be  curbed,  should 
be  kept  within  reasonable  bounds,  must  have  regard  for  the 
rights  and  privileges  of  others.  .  .  .  But  sympathetic  un 
derstanding,  comprehension,  shared  feeling  ought  to  take 
care  of  that,  ought  to  safeguard  against  wrongs  to  others, 
if  scarcely  against  excesses  injurious  to  the  self.  No  man 
could  wrong  a  woman,  knowing  how  a  woman  felt;  and 
what  man,  born  of  woman,  could  help  knowing  sufficiently 
how  a  woman  felt?  It  must  be  that  for  one  swift  interval 
the  senses  enslaved  the  mind.  .  .  .  And  why  not?  In  this 
day  and  generation  anything  sensual  was  heaped  with  scorn, 
although  the  selfsame  ascetics  that  called  sensual  enjoyment 
evil  believed  devoutly  in  the  legend  that  all  wickedness  came 
from  parents  who  ate  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge — 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil!  The  Deity  had  forbidden  our 
parents  to  eat  of  the  fruit  of  that  tree;  the  Deity  had  not 
wished  them  to  know  that  this  was  good  and  that  was  evil. 
Was  that  so? 

Or  had  not  trusted  these  humans  to  decide.  .  .  . 

Were  not  those  who  continually  pointed  out  evil  simply 
repeating,  day  in  and  day  out,  the  offense  for  which  the  first 
pair  had  been  driven  forth  from  Eden? 

Oh!  to  have  Elias  Hicks  here,  and  ask  him  the  question! 
Hicks,  the  Quaker,  dead  these  ten  years.  Walt  would  never 
forget  him  as  once  heard  not  many  months  before  his  death. 
The  nine-year-old  Walt  had  been  taken  with  his  parents  to 
(of  all  places!)  the  gay  ballroom  of  Morrison's  Hotel,  on 


THE   ANSWERER  13 

Brooklyn  Heights,  with  windows  giving  on  the  East  River 
and  ship-filled  New  York  harbor.  For  Elias  preached  any 
where. 

The  great,  elegant  apartment,  used  chiefly  for  genteel  con 
certs,  balls  and  assemblies,  held  many  settees  and  chairs 
besides  having  a  velvet  divan  running  along  the  walls. 
Every  seat  was  soon  taken;  the  room  seemed  to  contain 
many  richly-dressed,  fashionable  women  and  all  the  notable 
men  of  the  town.  Mr.  Pierrepont  was  there,  George  Hall, 
N.  B.  Morse,  Judge  Furman,  General  Jeremiah  John 
son.  .  .  . 

A  straight,  Cromwellian  figure  clothed  in  drab  cloth,  with 
broad-brimmed  hat  and  black,  piercing,  beautiful  eyes  con 
fronted  them  in  a  moment  or  two  of  perfect  stillness.  Then 
the  voice,  resonant,  melodious,  grave.  .  .  .  The  true  reli 
gion,  one  heard,  consisted  not  at  all  in  rites,  Bibles,  sermons 
or  Sundays — but  in  noiseless  secret  ecstacy  and  unremitted 
aspiration,  in  purity,  in  a  good  practical  life,  in  charity  to 
the  poor  and  toleration  to  all. 

4 

"  Passing  Freegift  Terry's,  friend?  " 

Walt  hailed  a  traveler  on  horseback  in  the  road  below. 

"  Yes." 

"  'Twill  be  a  favor  if  you'll  tell  him  Walt  Whitman's  off 
for  a  few  days  to  the  south." 

"  Who's  't  that's  off?  " 

"Walt  Whitman— jest  say,  'Wait'!  " 

The  horseman  assented  and  farewell'd  with  a  sweeping 
arm. 


14  THE   ANSWERER 

Moving  southward,  Walt  found  the  road  too  dusty  for 
comfort,  the  sun  having  quickly  parched  its  bed  of  sand.  He 
struck  off  a  little  to  the  east,  bearing  for  Babylon  village,  the 
noise  of  his  passage  through  occasional  brush  disturbing  rab 
bits  and  quail.  In  openings,  not  far  distant  and  generally  en 
circled  by  trees,  his  eye  was  pleased  with  glimpses  of  deer 
feeding  on  tender  spring  shoots  and  berries.  They  seldom 
appeared  to  take  notice  of  him  but,  having  grazed  a  while, 
would  toss  their  antlers  or  then:  sleek  heads  of  does  and  go 
crashing  away  through  the  bushes — shrub  oak,  as  polite 
writers  called  it ;  "  scrub  oak  "  in  the  speech  of  the  people. 
Walt  stopped  to  admire  such  a  burst — three  does  and  their 
mates  coursing  by — and  was  surprised  by  the  glint  of  sun 
shine  on  metal  somewhere  ahead  of  him.  He  looked  about. 
Oh,  yes;  surveyors!  They  were  laying  out  the  line  of  the 
steam  railroad,  which  was  shortly  to  be  extended  from 
Hicksville — pushed  through,  some  said,  clear  to  the  county- 
seat  of  Suffolk  county,  at  Riverhead;  perhaps  might  even 
be  carried  to  Greenport.  Greenport— Sag  Harbor!  Sag 
Harbor,  with  its  great  fleet  of  whaling-ships!  Why  not  go 
there?  Why  not  talk  with  some  of  the  captains,  view  the 
ships,  mingle  with  the  men,  hear  their  yarns  and  true,  mar 
velous  experiences? 

The  Welsh  Williamses  of  his  mother's  stock  had  been 
sailors,  some  of  them;  in  his  farthest  boyhood,  Walt  had 
heard  the  legend  of  that  old  sea  wolf,  Kossabone,  who  had 
died  at  ninety,  seated  in  a  great  arm  chair  in  his  home,  his 
blue  eyes  upon  the  bay,  the  winged  vessels,  the  distant  cape. 
His  great-grandmother's  grandfather?  Perhaps;  none  had 
known  certainly;  the  distance  had  dimmed  everything  but 


THE  ANSWERER  15 

the  picture,  like  an  impressive  and  masterly  canvas,  a  vision 
which  should  forever  fix  him  in  the  memory  of  his  descend 
ants.  "  I  give,  devise,  and  bequeath — "  A  heritage  of  un 
derstanding  is  the  true  bequest.  .  .  . 

Greenport — Sag  Harbor;  but  meanwhile  here  was  the  glit 
ter  of  the  sun  on  a  surveyor's  transit,  and  here  were  men, 
youthful,  bronzed,  sighting  lines,  hallooing.  The  sound  of 
the  broadax  rang  from  nearby  woods.  Walt  hastened  for 
ward,  and  hailed. 

Glad  enough  to  see  him  they  seemed;  there  were  four  of 
them,  lodged  at  a  house  on  the  road  a  half-mile  or  more 
off,  they  said.  The  youngest,  who  might  have  been  nine 
teen,  smiled  at  Walt  in  the  fashion  of  sudden,  complete 
friendliness  which  Youth  knows  and  Age  has  lost  the  trick 
of.  The  look  made  them  secret-sharers.  .  .  .  His  name  was 
Joel — Joel  Skidmore. 

"  Huntington  way?  "  /• 

"Yes,  You  belong  to  the  West  Hills  Whitmans? 
Thought  so." 

He  showed  Walt  the  principle  of  the  transit;  waved  his 
hand,  describing  careless  gestures;  spoke  pridefully  of  their 
determination  and  ability  to  survey  "  mile  after  mile  of  this 
track  as  straight  as  if  you'd  laid  it  down  on  the  map  with  a 
ruler's  edge.J>  Curves  were  dangerous?  "  Very,"  affirmed 
young  Skidmore.  "  Maybe,  some  day,  they'll  be  less  so. 
You  see,  anything  moving  fast,  in  a  straight  line,  if  it's 
obliged  to  take  a  bend — "  He  discussed  ballistics,  finishing: 
" — and  already  we  drive  along  the  rails  at  twenty  miles  an 
hour!  " 

Walt  listened  interestedly;    he  felt  himself  constantly 


16  THE   ANSWERER 

drawn  to  this  youth,  so  nearly  his  own  age  and  almost  ex 
actly  the  age  of  young  Freegif t  Terry,  toward  whom  he  had 
felt  a  similar  affection.  This  strong,  instant  feeling,  first 
roused  by  the  frank,  smiling  glance  of  the  boy  Freegift,  now 
as  quickly  stirred  by  something  in  the  look  of  Joel  Skidmore, 
was  a  puzzling,  unaccountable  thing!  "  Friendliness  "  was 
too  pale  a  word;  it  was  a  feeling  far  too  intense,  dear, 
precious  to  be  characterized  by  any  word  but  "  love."  A 
special  form  of  love,  with  something  brooding  in  it,  yet  pos 
sible  (he  judged)  only  between  the  young  and  equal-aged. 
The  love  of  comrades!  Undeniably,  it  was  a  passion;  it 
flamed  within  you;  was  a  thing  of  the  body  quite  as  tortur- 
ingly  as  of  the  spirit.  And  lawless.  .  .  . 

Boys  bathing  side  by  side,  racing  naked  on  the  smooth 
white  contours  of  the  beach,  sleeping  together  under  the 
moonlight,  an  arm  resting  lightly  on  a  breast,  a  sigh  escaping 
the  lips  of  the  dreamer.  ...  A  pounding  at  the  wrists  and 
temples;  and  an  ache  of  happiness.  .  .  . 

But  if  this  died,  if  the  years  transmuted  feeling,  re-di 
rected  passion,  destroyed  the  concentration,  focus,  on  par 
ticular  persons — what  then?  What,  indeed,  but  a  spread 
ing  flood,  the  wave  weaker  but  rolling  wider,  the  scorch  gone 
but  the  dispersed  warmth  remaining,  bathing  all  the  world, 
all  men,  all  women,  all  humankind  in  its  affectionate  under 
standing,  sympathy,  comprehension,  tolerance?  That  which 
had  been  a  bodily  attraction,  gross  yet  beautiful,  became 
(it  must  be)  a  lofty  endowment,  an  institution  on  which  so 
ciety  rested,  the  institution  of  the  love  of  comrades,  manly, 
high-towering.  .  .  . 

The  boy  Joel  had  stopped  speaking  and  was  looking  at 


THE   ANSWERER  17 

him  with  smiling  face  and  eyes  both  shy  and  bold.  Abruptly 
Walt  took  up  the  thread  of  the  youth's  enthusiasm. 

"Yes,  you're  right!  Oh!  what  a  grand  country  this  is! 
Not  just  our  own  Long  Island,  but  all  these  States!  Like  a 
poem;  like  the  amplest  conceivable  poem!  And  you  say 
after  you  have  surveyed  this  route,  you  are  going  to  the 
South  or  West?  Oh!  how  I  should  like  to  go  with  you! 
We  two  boys  together  clinging,  never  leaving  each  other,  go 
ing  the  roads,  excursions  North  and  South — how  fine  that 
would  be!  " 

"  Stay  here  with  us;  you  can  shoulder  a  transit;  I'll  show 
you  enough  so  'at  you'll  be  useful.  Come  midsummer,  we'll 
have  the  line  mapped  plumb  to  Greenport — then  you  and 
I'll  travel!  " 

Walt  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  for  Babylon  village,  then  the 
bay  and  beach — fishing  and  swimming;  maybe  I'll  try  to 
make  a  poem  or  two." 

"  D'  you  rime  well?    Easily?  " 

"Oh.  .  .  fair  enough.  But  it's  mighty  cramping,  like 
trying  to  keep  healthy  while  you  stay  indoors  all  the  time." 

"  Edgar  Foe's  a  won'erful  poet,  they  say." 

"  Musical,  like  a  waterfall.    I've  heard  the  ocean!  " 

Joel's  eyes  danced.  "Ah,  so've  I!  That's  something 
better  than  music — tinkle!  " 

The  sun  was  high  and  the  surveying  party  quitted  to  eat. 

"  Come  along,  Walt  Whitman!  Plenty  of  room  for  one 
more  at  the  farmer's  table!  " 

"Don't  miss  seeing  the  farmer's  pretty  daughters!  " 

"  Stay  the  night!  Sow  seed  for  your  supper!  Marry  a 
daughter  and  stay  forever!  " 


18  THE   ANSWERER 

Walt  laughed. 

"  I  am  a  carpenter,  farmer,  printer,  teacher,"  he  explained, 
coming,  "and — oh,  yes! — at  present  a  tramp-traveler." 

"  He'll  be  a  man  in  the  world  in  the  eyes  of  the  farmer's 
daughters." 

"  Can  make  himself  useful." 

"  Oh,  a  man  of  the  world  need  only  be  ornamental." 

One  of  the  surveying  party  coarsened  the  badinage.  On 
Joel  Skidmore's  face  a  deep  flush  showed;  he  looked  anx 
iously  at  their  companion,  but  Walt's  face  was  serene,  ex 
pressionless,  though  he  must  have  heard. 

The  farmhouse  was  typical  of  the  region  and  period ;  Walt 
looked  with  pleasure  about  the  immense  kitchen  which  had 
at  one  end  a  fireplace  and  hearth  nearly  as  wide  as  the  room, 
domed  by  a  great  chimney.  The  strong,  thick  timbers  of 
the  ceiling  had  been  darkened  by  the  smoke  of  many  fires; 
the  housewife's  cloths  and  brushes  had  been  at  them  until, 
for  all  their  smokiness,  they  gleamed  like  huge  bands  of  a 
mysterious  metal.  The  floor  was  stone.  A  long  table,  un- 
spread  with  any  cloth,  steamed  with  food  taken  from  kettles 
that  hung  on  iron  cranes  over  the  fireplace's  embers.  A 
negress,  very  old,  probably  an  ex-slave,  was  squatted  down 
on  the  hearth  poking  the  well-roasted  sweet  potatoes  out  of 
the  wood-coals. 

The  roominess,  the  table  like  an  immense,  low  altar,  the 
kneeling  woman,  all  gave  the  sense  of  standing  in  a  taber 
nacle;  but  an  everyday,  highly-appetizing  incense  soaked 
the  air.  Framed  in  a  wide  doorway  Walt  saw  the  farmer's 
two  daughters.  Suddenly  they  were  pushed  gently  aside 
from  behind  and  the  farmer's  wife  came  through  the  door 


THE   ANSWERER  19 

and  into  the  kitchen,  Walt's  first  impression  was:  My 
own  mother! 

At  once  he  began  to  sense  differences,  little,  unnameable 
distinctions;  but  his  mind  took  scarcely  any  note  of  these 
and  affirmed  all  the  marked  resemblances.  This  was,  again, 
the  old  face  of  the  mother  of  many  children  (some  lived; 
some  had  died;  she  had  borne  them  all).  A  face  of  fullest 
knowledge,  of  content.  A  face  that  looked  out  from  be 
neath  a  Quaker  cap — clear,  beautiful;  the  face  that  one  saw 
above  the  spinning-wheel,  the  soft  skin  like  flax,  the  hair 
like  flax  but  whiter,  softer.  Such  a  face  did  not  so  much 
smile  as  spread  a  strengthened  radiance.  .  .  .  No  young 
woman  could  have  that  special  beauty,  like  an  autumnal 
sky,  cleared  for  the  evening.  Nor  any  man,  young  or 
old.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  daughters  dropped  her  eyes  modestly  but  the 
other  gave  Walt — gave  all  five  young  men — looks  merry, 
meaningful,  mischievous.  The  farmer,  busy  in  his  fields,  was 
not  there  to  observe  his  girls.  Jenny — that  was  her  name — 
jumped  up  constantly  to  wait  on  the  surveyors.  She  would 
place  a  dumpling  on  a  plate  and  her  fingers  would  lightly 
touch  a  cheek  or  shoulder.  Joel  blushed  at  the  contact; 
Walt  caught  the  hand  and  lightly  patted  it.  Another  put 
his  arm  about  her  waist.  Jenny  shrieked.  Her  mother  ob 
served  everything  with  undisturbed  placidity. 

All  ate  heartily,  with  almost  no  talk;  there  were  no  courses 
and  the  meal  was  soon  finished.  Jenny,  slipping  outside  the 
kitchen,  could  be  seen  standing  close  to  one  of  the  men, 
the  one  whose  arm  had  gone  about  her.  They  whispered, 
fingers  twining;  she  broke  away  with  a  cry  and  a  pretense 


20  THE  ANSWERER 

of  flight  from  him,  but  immediately  posed  herself  in  the 
doorway  to  wave  a  good-by.  Her  eyes  admired  him.  On 
the  way  back  to  work,  the  other  three  made  game  of  Joel 
for  his  blush  and  other  matters. 

"  Can't  ye  take  what's  offered  ye,  lad?  " 

"  He's  particular,  is  Joel ;  Jenny's  too  usual  for  him.  He's 
waiting  to  take  a  snatch  at  t'other,  her  sister." 

"  Jenny's  been  all  around  .  .  .  your  turn  next,  Joel." 

Joel  brazened  it  out;  laughed,  red-faced,  though  Walt 
saw  the  discomfiture  in  his  eyes.  And  noted  that  though  he 
laughed,  he  said  nothing.  When  work  had  been  resumed 
and  they  were  a  little  apart  from  the  rest,  the  boy  turned 
to  Walt  and  said  fiercely: 

"  I  can't  stand  it — their  making  a  fool  of  me.  I — I — 
Stay  over  to-night  and  I'll  leave  the  job  and  go  along  o'  you, 
7f  you're  willing,  to-morrow." 

"  Come  with  me?  What  great  times  we'll  have!  "  Walt's 
arm  went  affectionately,  exuberantly,  about  the  boy's  shoul 
der.  Then  his  face  altered  and  he  said,  gently:  "You 
mustn't  mind  what  they  say,  though;  don't  come  for  that 
reason,  come  for  better  reasons !  Tell  me,  why  do  you  mind 
their  talk?  "  His  question  was  earnest;  the  tone  of  asking, 
persuasive. 

Joel  fumbled  for  words.    At  length: 

"  Well,  I— I  hate  all  that  kind  of  thing,  but  "—with  a 
species  of  desperate  candor — "  I  guess  what  cuts  is  a  feel 
ing  they're  belittlin'  me.  As  if  I  weren't — a  man  grown." 

Walt's  eyes  praised  the  honest  admission.  But  the  boy's 
tongue  was  loosed.  He  went  on,  with  increasing  intensity: 

"  I'm  as  much  a  man  grown  as  any  of  'em.    What  do  they 


THE   ANSWERER  21 

know?  They  don't  know  all  my  thoughts  and  feelin's,  I 
guess!  Now,  tell  me,  do  they?  I  don't  talk;  they  are  al 
ways  talkin'.  They're  always  tellin',  too:  i  I  said  this, 
she  said  that;  then  I  kissed  her' — an'  a  lot  more.  ...  If 
it's  all  true,  or  the  half  on  it,  why  do  they  need  to  tell  about 
it?  "  He  appealed  to  Walt,  who  answered: 

"  Now  you've  hit  it,  Joel!  If  it's  true — if!  Joel,  it  isn't 
— it  just  ain't!  You  know  it,  I  know  it;  each  knows  it  of 
the  other  even  as  it's  told.  But — the  tale  is  to  the  teller 
and  comes  back  most  to  him;  the  song  is  to  the  singer, 
he  hears  it  perfectly  sung!  A  fellow  doesn't  talk  about 
the  fish  on  his  string;  he  yarns  about  the  fish  he  almost 
hooked." 

They  ran  boundary  lines  through  the  afternoon.  Walt, 
easily  absenting  himself  without  notice,  wandered  back  to 
ward  the  farmhouse.  The  girl,  Jenny,  was  spreading  white, 
fresh-washed  linens  on  bushes.  Walt  approached  her,  smil 
ing. 

She  smiled  back  invitingly  but  tossed  her  head  at  the 
same  instant  as  if  to  say:  "  Come  along  if  you  want  to, 
but  if  you  don't  7  sha'n't  care!  "  He  came  steadily  forward 
until  he  was  very  close;  then  said: 

"You're  the  prettiest  gal  this  side  Huntington,  Jenny!  " 

Her  black,  opaque  eyes  reflected  little  flashes  of  the  sun 
light.  But  she  said  nothing. 

"  The  men  are  crazy  about  you,  even  Joel." 

No  answer.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  cloth  she  was  spread 
ing. 

"  I'll  warrant  I  could  make  you  like  me  better  than  any 
of  'em." 


22  THE  ANSWERER 

"  Conceit!  "  she  murmured,  but  gave  him  her  glance  and! 
a  renewed  invitation. 

He  took  her  hand,  pressed  it,  and  went  on: 

"I've  listened  to  them;  heard  them  tell  how  well  youi 
liked  'em.  According  to  their  tell,  you  like  each  of  'em  bet 
ter  than  the  others.  You'd  never  say  no  to  any  of  them;  in 
fact,  you've  never  refused  whichever  one's  talking  at  the 
moment." 

The  opacity  of  her  eyes  seemed  to  surrender  to  depths 
of  uncertainty,  a  quality  of  uneasiness  or  mistrust  of  his 
meaning.  He  waited  for  the  look  of  intense  curiosity.  It 
came. 

"  So  I  know  you'll  be  glad  of  me!  You'll  like  me  lots^ 
better  than  their  best." 

"  Much  you  know!  "  she  answered,  pertly.  "  Besides,  II 
don't  want  you!  " 

Walt  looked  genuinely  surprised. 

"Why,  Jenny!  Any  one  to  hear  you  would  think  youi 
werechoicy!  " 

"  Well,  I  am!  " 

But  his  gusts  of  laughter  made  this  proclamation  futile. 

"Why,  no,  Jenny,  you're  not  choicy;  you're  not  picking: 
and  choosing,  not  you!  You're  taking  all  comers!  You're 
any  one's  that  offers  .  .  .  impartial,  like  the  weather;  vari 
able  as  the  weather,  to  be  sure — " 

The  full  import  of  what  he  was  saying  came  upon  her- 
like  a  man  whose  pretended  admiration  masked  a  violent 
and  terrible  seizure  and  embrace — came  upon  her  while  her 
eyes  were  still  regarding  with  secret  favor  his  plentiful  black 
hair,  stalwart  figure  and  clean,  sensitive  features.    The  light 


THE   ANSWERER  23 

went  from  her  eyes  as  a  flame  is  snuffed  out  somewhere  be 
hind  a  luminous  pane;  she  was  almost  white-lipped;  her 
breast  rose  and  fell. 

"You — you've  mistooken  me.  You've  no  warranty  to 
say — to  let  on  you  believe — " 

The  change  in  his  look  was  transfiguring;  yet  not  a  line 
of  the  face  altered.  Simply,  something  came  out  of  the 
gray-blue  eyes  which  had  never  wavered  from  the  direct  re 
gard  they  fastened  on  her  black  ones;  something  sped  from 
him  to  her,  caught  her  up  as  surely  as  a  strong  arm  encircles 
a  stumbling  child.  Her  breath,  drawn  in  sharply  by  a  sob, 
escaped  in  a  relaxing  sigh.  Nothing  was  said  for  several 
minutes;  defense,  apology,  extenuation  were  forgotten. 

"  What  is  it  we  want,  you  and  I?  "  he  muttered  finally 
but  with  no  air  of  addressing  the  question  to  her.  "  Friends? 
Yes.  Lovers?  Yes!  Don't  shrink  back,  Jenny!  Lovers? 
Why  not,  why  not?  Every  woman  should  have  a  hundred 
lovers;  every  man  should  love  a  hundred  women.  She  has, 
he  does!  You  can't  make  it  otherwise;  it  oughtn't  to  be 
otherwise.  .  .  .  Who  says  that  love  means  bodily  com 
merce?  Then,  for  him  or  her,  love  means  nothing  but  bodily 
commerce!  .  .  .  You  thought  I  had  mistaken  you,  Jenny, 
but  I  was  only  by  way  of  showing  you  the  risk." 

"  You  think— I'm— wicked." 

"  I  think  nothing  of  the  sort!  Jenny,  there's  no  virtue  in 
me,  or  any  other  man,  or  any  woman,  to  pronounce  upon 
your  doings — to  say  '  Jenny  did  right '  or  '  Jenny  acted 
wrong.'  No,  no!  Only,  whatever  you  do,  the  risk  o'  being 
misunderstood  is  there.  Or,  not  so  much  the  risk  o'  being 
misunderstood,  either — there's  less  real  misunderstanding  in 


24  THE   ANSWERER 

the  world  than  people  like  to  play  at;  people  pretend  to 
misunderstand  as  it  serves  their  purposes.  No,  not  the  risk 
o'  being  misunderstood  " — he  chuckled,  rather  sadly — "  so 
much  as  the  certainty  o'  being  misjudged!  " 

After  a  pause  he  went  on: 

"  Joel's  going  away  with  me  in  the  morning."  She  looked 
at  him,  for  a  second,  with  betraying  eyes.  "  Ah!  ...  And 
yet  there's  nothing  between  you  and  Joel  except — that  he 
loves  you  and  you  love  him,"  Walt  finished  gently.  "  No 
words,  not  even  exchanged  looks!  Oh!  I  know." 

She  spoke  in  a  stifled  voice. 

"  He's  the  only  one  I—" 

"  He's  one  that  is  worth  caring  about,"  Walt  answered 
the  unfinished  confession.  He  made  the  moment  easier  for 
her  with  a  whimsical  glint  of  the  gray-blue  eyes.  "  Good- 
by!  "  he  exclaimed,  "save  a  place  for  me  at  supper!  " 

5 

A  different  Jenny  sat  with  them  at  the  evening  meal.  And 
afterward  Walt  contrived  to  get  away  from  the  others  on  a 
pretext  of  taking  a  walk  with  Jenny  and  Joel.  He  talked 
easily  for  a  little  distance ;  then  left  with  the  excuse  of  going 
back  to  see  the  farmer  about  a  return  in  the  harvest  season. 
A  few  sentences  covered  the  topic,  and  he  and  Jenny's  father 
discussed  politics — Van  Buren,  the  prospects  of  the  Whigs 
at  the  fall  elections,  Andy  Jackson  and  Henry  Clay;  for  the 
day  was  still  a  day  of  persons,  or  personalities,  rather  than 
of  parties.  Walt  scandalized  the  farmer  by  his  lack  of  par- 
tizanship,  or  perhaps  bigotry,  though  the  countryman's 
phrase  was  "  political  principles,  the  positive  principles  of 


THE   ANSWERER  25 

Thomas  Jefferson,  sir!  "  Young  Mr.  Whitman  listened  to 
the  exposition  of  rural  ideals  in  government — "  we  till  the 
soil,  sir,  whilst  those  rascals  in  office  soil  the  till!  " — but 
throughout  the  audition  a  separate  consciousness  seemed  to 
exist  within  him;  he  had  a  strange  sensation  of  being  both 
here  and  elsewhere,  and  was  possessed,  pervaded  by  a  glow 
of  clairvoyance. 

Jenny  .  .  .  what  was  her  waywardness?  The  girl  wan 
toned  with  the  essential  innocence  of  whatsoever  was  beau 
tiful,  alive!  Wantoning  yet  innocent — it  was  necessary  to 
fall  back  upon  the  French  word  abandon  to  describe  her. 
Like  a  showy  flower,  but  a  flower  is  for  any  bee  that  passes. 
Not  so  the  woman,  this  girl  of  the  farm  among  the  scrub 
oaks,  the  sandy  soil  and  lonely  blossoming.  She  was  for 
Joel;  he  had  seemed  to  know  it  from  the  first  but  how,  he 
allowed,  he  could  not  tell.  It  had  been  almost  as  if  he  could 
hear  the  varying  beating  of  their  hearts  and  had  recognized 
the  profound,  essential  accord — systole,  diastole — in 
rhythms  inaudible  and  to  any  formal  judgment,  far 
apart.  .  .  . 

What  those  two  would  find  to  say  to  each  other,  or 
whether,  indeed,  they  would  find  words  relevant  at  all,  he 
speculated  only  briefly.  But  he  pondered  silently,  in  his 
separate  consciousness,  on  the  miracle  of  young  lovers.  It 
was  a  miracle  that  had  never  happened  to  himself,  Walt 
Whitman.  He  had  loved — yes! — impartially  and  enthu 
siastically  all  manner  of  people;  a  variety  of  places;  hills, 
orchards  of  rose-pink  and  white,  the  sky  and  the  resonant, 
magnificent  sea;  the  wonderful  faces  of  quiet  mothers,  the 
immature  faces  of  children  and  growing  boys.  And  his 


26  THE   ANSWERER 

mind  had  been  given  oh!  so  often  to  the  contemplation  of 
vistas  beyond  his  power  to  describe  or  even  to  characterize 
— vistas  that  had  something  inhuman,  unearthly  about  them, 
so  far  did  they  reach,  so  high  they  raised  you  up!  But 
love?  the  single  object,  overwhelmingly  concentrated  feel 
ing,  the  one  woman?  Not  yet;  it  might  be,  never;  for  Walt 
faced  the  fact  of  his  own  universality. 

The  heat  and  light  of  the  sun,  focussed  by  a  burning- 
glass,  endangered  the  existence  of  the  thing  they  were  con 
centrated  upon;  shriveled  the  flower,  set  fire  to  the  leaf.  A 
mere  fraction  of  the  force  of  the  ocean,  cumulated  in  a  giant 
wave,  multipled  its  dispersed  destructive  power.  What  was 
love,  this  love?  Was  it  heat-light  kindling  flame — the  over 
riding  wave  of  unspent  force?  Smoke  and  crackle  and 
ashes;  the  sun  shone  on.  The  wave  broke;  the  ocean  re 
mained  an  inexhaustible  reservoir.  .  .  . 

Banks,  the  United  States  Bank,  Martin  Van  Buren  and 
the  more  than  doubtful  value  of  steam  railroads  while  we 
had  excellent  canals  and  waterways.  Walt,  rising  from  his 
chair,  looked  out  into  the  darkening  spring  evening  and  saw 
two  figures  proceeding  toward  the  house.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  Jenny  and  Joel  entered;  for  good  night  they  found 
each  other's  eyes  a  second.  The  farmer,  emptying  his  pipe, 
ceased  his  deliberate  taps  to  inquire  of  Walt: 

"  You  look  mortal  set  up,  friend?  " 

"  I've  just  made  a  poem." 

"  So!  let's  hear  it." 

"  'Tisn't  recitable,  or  in  words ;  for  all  that  't  is  a  poem, 
the  most  jubilant  poem;  full  of  manhood  and  womanhood 


THE   ANSWERER  27 

and  infancy,  full  of  sunshine  and  the  motion  of  waves — a 
poem  of  joys!  " 

The  eyes  in  the  weathered  face  followed  Walt's.  An  ex 
pression  of  grave  surprise  was  succeeded  on  the  farmer's 
face  by  one  of  calculating  appraisal.  He  paid  no  attention 
to  his  daughter  but  scrutinized  Joel  Skidmore  with  care, 
finally  saying: 

"  We'll  be  able  to  double  the  acreage,  then,  next  year." 


Walt  and  Joel  were  bedded  in  the  attic,  a  place  of  large 
lateral  dimensions  and  uncertain  headroom  which  they  had 
to  themselves. 

The  boy  was  shaking  with  excitement;  his  lit  face  and 
shining  eyes,  disclosed  by  the  fitful  gleams  of  a  single  candle, 
gave  an  extraordinary  impression,  as  if  he  were  a  creature 
seen  in  a  vision.  He  talked  jerkily,  in  whispers;  and  it  re 
quired  the  full  leap  of  his  companion's  intuition  to  follow, 
comprehend  meanings.  .  .  . 

In  half-undress,  stretched  out  on  the  blankets  of  their 
bed,  which  was  the  floor  under  a  sloping  gable,  his  clasped 
hands  supporting  his  head  and  tilting  it  to  one  side,  Walt 
watched  Joel  bending  over  and  fumbling  with  his  shoes. 
The  smooth  skin  of  the  boy's  arms  had  a  warm  ivory  color 
ing;  the  muscles  moved  beneath  it  as  a  swell  comes  and 
goes  under  the  unmarred  surface  of  the  sea.  Behind  him, 
against  the  diverse  planes  of  the  gabled  roof,  amazing 
shadows  were  projected,  suggesting  an  incessant,  frantic 
struggle  in  the  art  of  representation,  a  vain  but  interminable 


28  THE   ANSWERER 

effort  to  depict  a  three-dimensional  creature  in  a  world  of 
but  two  dimensions,  a  world  that  knew  thickness  but  could 
not  conquer  it.  ...  In  this  weird  struggle  of  the  shadows 
there  was  something  delineative,  something  sad.  It  was  al 
together  too  like  the  grotesque  endeavor  of  mortals  to  com 
pass  ideas — ideas,  shapes  apart  from  them  and  shapes  that 
mankind  can  lay  no  hold  of.  ... 

"Walt!    Walt!" 

Joel's  incoherent  whispering  commanded  every  inch  of 
his  companion's  attention  at  last.  The  confession  was  ex 
plicit  and  staggering. 

"  God!  .  .  .  Did  you  tell  her  you  were  going  away  in  the 
morning?  " 

"  I  can't— now!  " 

"You  must!  " 

"No  ...  everything's  different.  Everything's  changed! 
I  want  to  stay — with  her!  " 

Walt  groaned. 

"  And  double  the  acreage  next  year?  Marry  her— chain 
yourself  to  this  cleared  ground  among  the  scrub  oaks?  You 
see  how  the  farmer  views  you — as  a  welcome  conscript  to 
speed  the  plow!  " 

That  didn't  matter!  Walt  meditated,  so  far  as  extreme 
mental  turmoil  would  allow.  His  first  dismay  somewhat 
overcome,  he  tested  the  situation. 

"  You  don't  suppose  you  are  the  first?  " 

She  had  said  so,  and  Joel  believed  her  implicitly.  His 
thought  running  back  to  Jenny's  behavior  during  their  talk 
of  the  afternoon,  Walt  accepted  Jenny's  word  and  Joel's  be 
lief  in  it.  Indeed,  affirmed  it  further  with  his  own  full  be- 


THE   ANSWERER  29 

lief;  for  there  had  been  no  falseness  in  look,  word  or  accent. 
..."  You  think — I'm — "  He  heard  again  her  sob  upon 
the  word,  "  wicked." 

For  a  moment  Walt  felt  an  impulse  to  blame  himself  in 
this  business.  But  then  a  rude  instinct  rose  up  in  strong, 
instant  denial.  What  had  he  said?  "  bodily  commerce?  " 
and  this  direct  phrase  only  in  an  emphatic  distinction  in 
capable  of  being  misunderstood.  He  was  not  even  certain 
that  Jenny  had  caught  words  which  weren't  addressed  to 
her  and  were  simply  the  result  of  his  habit  of  reflecting 
aloud. 

Into  one  species  of  blunder  his  racing  thoughts  did  not 
lead  him.  Walt  asked  no  question  designed  to  fix  the  re 
sponsibility  for  what  had  happened.  Responsibility — which 
is  not  precisely  synonymous  with  "  blame."  Those  who 
assign  the  blame  for  anything,  he  saw,  merely  color  their 
view  of  it;  those  who  try  to  settle  responsibility  grope  in 
the  dark;  those  who  talk  of  consequences  mistake  their 
guesses  for  the  workings  of  eternal  law.  .  .  . 

Joel,  by  his  side,  was  obscuring  the  clear  but  difficult 
perception  of  things-in-themselves,  these  intuitions  which 
came  as  vividly  out  of  the  revealed  situation  as  bright 
strokes  of  lightning  flash  from  darkly-laden  clouds.  The 
patter  of  rain  muffles  the  thunderclap.  The  incessant,  stam 
mering  ecstacy  of  the  boy's  happiness  was  equally  continu 
ous,  insistent  on  making  itself  heard. 

"Oh,  Walt!  She's  so  wholly  dear  to  me — now!  I  feel 
that  nothing  I  can  ever  do  to  protect  her,  guard  her,  will 
ever  be  enough.  Just  to  think  that  she's  given — " 

He  overflowed  with  the  sense  of  an  immense  tenderness 


3o  THE  ANSWERER 

for  Jenny,  Ms  Jenny;  by  the  gift  of  her  body,  Walt  re 
flected,  she  had  acquired  in  exchange  dominion  over  his 
soul.  For  Joel's  words,  mood,  uncontrollable  emotion  swept 
into  limbo  the  material  aspects  of  this  occurrence — or  acci 
dent — or  fatality;  however  you  chose  to  designate  it.  Walt 
was  stunned  with  the  pure  beauty  that  was  the  heart  of  an 
episode  which  the  world  would  stamp  as  low,  base,  or  else 
jeer  at  lewdly.  For  a  moment  he  wondered  if  Jenny  had 
been  raised  to  any  such  pitch  of  exaltation  as  this  boy,  her 
lover;  but  saw  almost  instantly  how  beside  the  point  any 
such  speculation  must  be.  She  had  lifted  the  boy — or 
rather,  the  man;  for  he  was  that  from  hence  forth — to  the 
heights,  to  the  sublime  height,  and  to  his  thrilled  vision 
she  was  there  beside  him.  Indeed,  to  his  sight,  she  had 
been  there  before  him,  and  had  beckoned  and  drawn  him 
up  to  her.  .  .  . 

Looked  at  from  the  lower  levels,  what  was  there  to  see? 
A  youth  who,  in  a  few  hours,  had  quitted  adolescence  for 
maturity.  A  timid,  questing  boy,  with  no  "  definition,"  as 
a  painter  would  say,  just  a  bright,  blurred  young  thing,  had 
become  as  fixed  and  irremovable  as  one  of  these  Long  Island 
hills.  It  was  exactly  as  if,  in  one  department,  Nature  had 
reversed  a  familiar  process,  and  the  butterfly,  folding  its 
gay  wings  and  entombing  itself  in  a  chrysalis,  were  about 
to  emerge,  almost  immediately,  as  a  grub.  Walt  made  this 
comparison  in  no  disparaging  spirit;  his  interest  was  the 
pure  curiosity  of  the  poet  or  the  scientist,  with  a  keen  regret 
that  he  was  to  lose  a  prospective  companion  on  the  road 
and  a  sharp  eagerness  to  know  all  about  a  transformation 
that  happened  to  so  many  of  the  race  and  would  (or 


THE   ANSWERER  31 

wouldn't?)  befall  himself  .  .  .  some  fine  day — "fine"  in 
the  old  sense  of  "  final:  terminal "  of  course.  .  .  . 

The  possessor  of  happiness,  the  beloved  of  the  gods,  the 
youth  turned  man  and  the  knower  of  inconceivable  felicity 
— the  mere-nineteen-year-old  by  his  side  on  the  floor  of  that 
attic,  had  at  length  left  off  his  whispering  and  lay  silent,  per 
haps  spent  of  words  worthy  to  communicate  his  intense  feel 
ing.  In  the  profound  quiet  under  the  gables  Walt  felt,  for 
a  period,  depressed  and  lonely.  It  did  seem  to  him,  at  that 
moment,  as  if  the  life  of  the  grub  were  infinitely  desirable — 
the  life  of  a  few  isolated  acres,  of  sunrise  and  sunset,  of 
winter  and  summer,  of  spasmodic,  backbreaking  toil.  For 
what?  For  food,  shelter,  clothing;  the  comfort  of  other 
lives;  the  duty  or  privilege  of  reproduction.  Who,  looking 
at  the  grub,  knew  how  brightly  he  saw  his  existence?  Here 
was  one  creeping  out  of  the  chrysalis — behold  his  delight, 
transporting  joy,  in  newly-achieved  grubhood!  There,  in 
the  person  of  Jenny's  father,  was  the  same  creature  after 
many  years  of  grubbiness.  Disillusioned,  unhappy?  Not  at 
all!  "  We'll  be  able  to  double  the  acreage,  then,  next  year!  " 
The  old  question  in  the  rigid  catechisms,  as  to  what  was 
the  chief  end  of  man,  seemed  fairly  self-answered  or  self- 
answering. 

With  women  was  it  any  different?  Walt's  thoughts 
turned  to  Jenny's  mother,  to  his  own  mother.  Women,  he 
instinctively  felt  (as  if,  somehow,  he  were  mentally  almost 
at  one  with  them)  were  surer  of  happiness  than  men.  No 
woman  need  be  without  child;  if  she  bore  her  husband  no 
children,  then  he  remained  to  her  in  their  place.  Children 
were  wayward?  or  half-witted?  or  crippled?  When  had 


32  THE   ANSWERER 

such  fortune  ever  failed  to  make  them  dearer  to  the  mother? 
Here  Walt  could  speak  from  personal  knowledge.  There 
was  his  little  brother,  Jeff,  such  a  fine  lad!  but  not  robust. 
Their  mother  cherished  Jeff — though  scarcely  tenderer  of 
him  than  Walt  himself  was.  The  baby,  Eddie — 

Walt  would  not  trust  himself  to  think  upon  Eddie.  After 
all,  Eddie  was  so  young!  It  was  horrible  to  think  that  the 
youngest  might  grow  up  an  idiot  (grow  up?  How  cruel 
words  are!  No,  not  "  grow  up  " — merely  age  without  grow 
ing  up).  .  .  . 

There  seemed  to  be  some  marvelous,  merciful  compensa 
tion  whereby  the  happiness  of  women — of  mothers — was 
made  secure  to  them.  The  love  that  filled  the  mother's  heart 
as  the  milk  filled  her  breasts  was  spontaneous  and  always 
just-proportioned,  if  one  could  use  a  measuring  word  to  de 
scribe  something  plainly  immeasurable.  But  what  I  mean, 
Walt  thought  to  himself,  is:  Where  the  mother  cannot  be 
happy  in  her  child,  it  is  somehow  made  up  to  her  so  that 
she  is  happy  in  her  love  of  her  child.  .  .  . 

And  in  the  thought  of  such  a  happiness,  creatively  imag 
ined,  he  fell  asleep. 

•, 

On  the  Babylon  road,  next  morning,  all  such  sustained 
contemplation  of  the  inner  ideal  was  banished  by  the  exuber 
ance  of  sunshine  and  a  dry,  cool  (almost  chilly! )  northwest 
wind.  The  sweet  taste  of  buckwheat  cakes  drenched  in 
syrup,  the  delicious  fragrance  of  the  farmer's  cider,  stir  of 
blood  and  the  bright  grandeur  of  the  day  outdoors  were  all 


THE   ANSWERER  33 

part  and  parcel  of  Walt's  overflowing  sense  of  well-being. 
The  sense  of  well-being — and  that  familiar,  irresistible  sense 
of  freedom  which  comes  from  the  long  look  ahead  on  a 
country  road.  How  I  love  these  old  wood  roads!  the  tramp- 
teacher  thought  to  himself,  and  he  began  to  recollect  some 
of  their  names,  names  that  had  a  special  significance  al 
ready,  in  some  instances,  lost.  There  was  the  Yellow  House 
Road;  over  on  the  north  shore  he  had  come,  in  his  wan 
derings,  upon  the  Crystal  Brook  Road.  .  .  .  Names  of 
places  on  Paumanok,  this  "  Island  of  Shells  "  in  the  lingua 
of  the  Indian  tribes,  had  often  an  equal  charm.  Fire  Place 
and  Canoe  Place,  for  example!  Oldtimers,  like  Rumsey 
Platt,  ignored  such  modern  designations  as  Port  Jefferson 
and  Mount  Sinai,  and  spoke  still  of  goin'  t'  Drown  Meadow 
or  puttin'  up  at  Old  Man's.  .  .  . 

In  Babylon,  where  he  had  taught  one  year,  Walt  felt 
almost  as  much  at  home  as  in  Huntington;  he  repaired  to 
the  house  of  Zophar  Wines,  sure  of  a  welcome.  The 
eighteen-year-old  daughter,  Temperance,  a  demure  girl  with 
dark  hair  and  the  steel-blue  eyes  of  her  Puritan  father, 
opened  the  door  with  a  curtsey  and  the  slight  blush  which, 
with  her,  always  took  the  place  of  a  smile.  Her  mother 
was  dead.  Walt's  greeting  was  hearty. 

"  Well,  Temperance!  Here  you  see  me  again,  foot-loose 
— the  same  young  vagabond!  " 

She  widened  the  way  and  he  entered,  looking  about  him. 
Nothing  was  changed  since  the  winter  he  had  boarded  there. 
No — yes !  A  steel  engraving,  the  Parable  of  the  Loaves  and 
Fishes,  had  been  shifted  to  the  opposite  wall. 


34  THE   ANSWERER 

Temperance  decorously  took  his  sapling-stick,  which  Walt 
had  cut  for  himself  on  the  way  into  Babylon,  and  placed  it 
in  a  corner.  Then  she  said: 

"  Father  is  in  the  parlor.  He  has  spent  the  morning  there 
asking  for  guidance.  Dinner  is  almost  ready." 

Her  tone  was  earnest,  not  cold  but  grave,  contained;  and 
her  words  had  an  inflexible  accent,  as  if  the  pronunciation 
of  each  syllable  discharged  a  duty.  Familiarity  with  tone 
and  accent,  with  her  manner  and  the  atmosphere  of  that 
home,  prevented  Walt  from  feeling  in  any  degree  ill  at  ease. 
Warmth,  cordiality  in  the  ordinary  sense,  were  not  to  be  ex 
pected,  were  simply  non-existent  here;  an  early  Christian 
martyr  appearing  on  the  threshold  would  have  been  received 
with  more  respect,  undoubtedly,  and  perhaps  with  a  display 
of  reverence;  he  would  not,  however,  have  been  embraced. 
Walt  thought  for  an  amused  moment  of  that  impetuous 
apostle  Saint  Paul,  who  instructed  his  followers  to  "  salute 
one  another  with  a  holy  kiss."  Paul,  a  good  deal  like  him 
self—fiery,  joyous,  impulsive,  enthusiastic.  What  would 
happen  if  he,  Walt,  flung  his  arms  about  Temperance  and 
kissed  her  ...  probably  a  kiss  on  the  forehead  was 
meant.  .  .  . 

Temperance  had  left  the  room  and  in  the  midst  of  his 
hazardous  speculation  the  door  leading  to  the  parlor  opened 
and  Zophar  Wines  came  in.  He  was  tall,  almost  Walt's 
height,  with  a  beard  encircling  the  face  from  ear  to  ear, 
iron-gray  and  apparently  never  scissored.  Two  oblique  lines 
from  the  sides  of  the  high-bridged  nose  to  the  stern  corners 
of  the  narrow  mouth  had  lost  their  usual  delineative  im 
portance  because  of  a  fanatical  light  in  the  eyes,  a  light  new 


THE   ANSWERER  35 

to  Walt.  It  stopped  for  a  moment  the  cheerful  greeting 
on  the  young  man's  lips  and  gave  Zophar  Wines  opportunity 
to  say: 

"  Walter  Whitman,  have  you  heard  the  great  word?  Is 
it  the  message  of  the  Lord  that  has  brought  you  here  to  join 
our  band  and  make  such  preparation  as  we  can  against  the 
great  Day?  " 

A  new  sect,  thought  Walt,  not  very  much  astounded.  He 
had  heard  of  new  sects  since  his  childhood  but  it  seemed  to 
him  they  had  been  especially  plentiful  in  the  last  two- three 
years,  since  the  hard  times  of  1837. 

"No — no — I'm  afraid  I've  not  been  directed  here,  Mr. 
Wines.  If  so,  I  hadn't  suspected  it." 

"  Who  knoweth  the  Lord's  ways?  .  .  .  full  of  mercy. 
You  were  doubtless  directed,  appearing  at  this  time.  The 
message  is  clear.  We  are  to  prepare  for  the  Second  Coming. 
The  day,  the  hour — even  the  minute — is  set." 

"You  mean  .  .  .  the  end  of  the  world?  " 

"  The  end  of  this  world,  yes !  and  the  beginning  of  the 
Life  Eternal.  .  .  ." 

Walt  slightly  shuddered.    "  But—" 

"  I  have  been  on  my  knees  for  a  number  of  hours  " — he 
tottered  and  steadied  himself  with  a  hand  on  the  back  of  a 
chair — "seeking  instructions  and  guidance.  All  has  been 
made  clear  to  me.  I  shall  cancel  all  my  mortgages  this  aft 
ernoon,  discharge  every  one  of  indebtedness  to  me,  and 
otherwise  take  the  first  steps  in  the  final  adjustment  of  my 
worldly  affairs." 

"Good,  good!"  The  comment  was  involuntary.  "I 
mean,"  Walt  amended,  "  I  think  it  must  be  wonderful,  beau- 


36  THE   ANSWERER 

tiful!  to  think  you  can  enrich  people  like  that,  by  a  word 
and  just  the  few  strokes  of  a  pen!  Though — if  the  world's 
to  end,  can  it  make  such  a  difference  about  debts  and 
things?  " 

" '  Give  all  thou  hast  to  the  poor—' " 

"  They'll  have  no  chance  to  enjoy  it." 

"  It  is  not  given  them  for  their  enjoyment — " 

"  But  for  your  forgiveness?  " 

Zophar  Wines  frowned,  saying,  however,  with  pitying  pa 
tience:  "  You  do  not  understand." 

"  Do  you?    Are  you  sure?  " 

"It  may  be  not  ...  it  is  my  business  to  execute  the 
Divine  command." 

The  door  to  the  dining  room  opened  and  Temperance 
Wines  stood  aside  to  let  them  pass. 

They  stood  while  Zophar  Wines  said  grace.  The  two 
men  seated  themselves.  Temperance  glided  to  and  fro, 
bringing  a  few  supplementary  dishes.  Then  she,  too,  sat. 
Her  father  attended  strictly  to  eating. 

The  zest  taken  from  his  outdoor  appetite,  Walt  ate  slowly, 
with  ventures  of  his  eyes  toward  the  girl,  less  often  toward 
the  rich  holder  of  mortgages.  On  one  of  these  excursions 
his  glance  struck  full  upon  a  look  of  Temperance's.  The 
pure,  steely  gaze  suggested  a  young  creature  perfectly  ar 
mored  against  any  ambush  by  the  emotions — either  her  own 
or  another's.  The  warm  and  care-free,  therefore  reckless, 
blood  in  Walt  found  in  this  protected  look  as  great  a  provo 
cation  as  any  free  lance  ever  found  in  the  sight  of  a  securely- 
defended  fortress.  Avant!  Her  countenance  unbearably 
challenged  his  nature.  Zophar  Wines  spoke: 


THE  ANSWERER  37 

"  You  have  secured  the  cloth,  Temperance?  " 

«  Yes,  father." 

"  Doubtless  you  will  set  to  sewing  upon  it  this  day?  " 

She  assented.    Her  father  said  to  Walt,  explanatorily: 

"  Our  preparations  are  well  under  way.  We  shall  be 
ready.  .  .  .  The  women  have  taken  upon  them  the  task  of 
preparing  our  robes,  to  be  worn  on  the  great  Day,  now  so 
near  at  hand." 

"  Robes?  "  The  young  man  made  an  effort  to  appear  in 
telligent.  "  But  I  thought  on  the  Day  of  Judgment  we  were 
all  to  stand  na — "  He  checked  himself,  unembarrassed  but 
unwishful  to  embarrass  Temperance. 

"  It  is  true  our  souls  shall  stand  naked  before  the  Seat 
of  Judgment,"  answered  Zophar  Wines,  in  a  calm,  quiet 
voice.  "  But,  though  these  bodies  are  nothing,  it  is  meet 
that  we  should  array  ourselves  ...  for  the  hour  when  the 
heavens  shall  be  unrolled  and  the  earth  shall  shrivel  up  and 
the  ocean  run  dry.  .  .  ." 

"  Is  all  Babylon  preparing?  " 

"  No.  .  .  .  Alas !  this  community  is  well-named.  Though 
there  are  many  who  are  thoughtless,  rather  than  wicked. 
Many,  indeed,  in  our  own  Congregational  flock — almost  half 
— have  been  deaf  to  the  words  of  our  pastor." 

"  Mr.  Sammis?  " 

"  Aye.  A  wonderful,  inspired  leader.  It  was  specially  re 
vealed  to  him  in  a  vision  how  we  should  all  foregather  on 
Fire  Island  beach,  there  to  await  the  final  summons." 

"  And  see  the  ocean  run  dry,"  Walt  marveled. 

"  Day  of  wrath  and  day  of  burning!  " 

"  Oh!  ...  I  can't  believe  that!  " 


38  THE   ANSWERER 

"  Those  who  do  not  believe  will  be  lost,"  declared  Zophar 
Wines  sadly. 

"  Temperance,  do  you  believe?  "    Impetuously  asked. 

Temperance  Wines  spoke  in  her  contained,  small  voice 
that  had  only  one  accent — inflexibility: 

"  Selah  Mulford,  the  younger,  is  of  little  faith.  He  scoffed 
openly.  ...  I  have  broken  my  betrothal  with  him." 

Walt's  chair  grated  noisily  on  the  floor.  He  did  not  rise 
but  sat  regarding  her  as  if  she  had  suddenly  changed  shape 
to  something  inhuman. 

"  But — that  isn't — why  should  you — ?  " 

The  end  of  the  world,  he  reflected,  had  probably  been 
somewhat  advanced  as  to  day  and  hour  for  the  younger 
Selah  Mulford.  The  first  reaction  to  Temperance's  dis 
closure  was  a  recoiling  as  from  an  act  of  savage  cruelty; 
and  yet  this  was  no  unusual  manifestation  of  the  Puritan 
temperament.  History,  not  to  speak  of  legend,  recorded 
plenty  of  similar  actions.  .  .  . 

How  such  conduct  was  to  be  conceived,  understood,  Walt 
did  not  pretend  to  himself  that  he  knew — not  yet,  not  yet! 
though  he  hoped  to  know,  to  understand  in  order  to  tolerate. 
There  were  Puritans  in  the  world  and  (he  did  not  doubt) 
they  were  somehow  necessary  to  it,  served  some  useful  pur 
pose.  He  came  back  to  an  awareness  of  Zophar  Wines's 
tones: 

"The  young  man  was  very  violent,  which  showed  the 
devil  that  was  in  him  and  which  he  could  not  cast  out." 

"  I  must  go  see  him!  "  Walt  exclaimed.  "  Oh!  the  poor 
fellow!  Temperance,  don't  you  know  he  loved  you?  " 

A  rebuking  murmur  came  from  her  father.    The  full  per- 


THE   ANSWERER  39 

sonal  force  of  Walt,  the  strong,  animal  magnetism  of  the 
young  man  facing  her,  had  entered  into  his  speech  or  else 
had  vibrated  wordlessly  in  the  space  between  them.  For  a 
second  the  steel-blue  eyes  seemed  to  darken  ever  so  slightly, 
the  long  upper  lip  was  noticeable.  .  .  .  Then  she  spoke, 
perfectly-controlled : 

"  I  was  guided." 

Walt  broke  loose.    He  turned  on  Zophar  Wines. 

"  You  all  look  for  guidance — from  outside,  never  from 
within!  I  should  think,  if  God  were  anywhere,  he  would 
be  within  men.  But  you  go  outside.  I  should  be  afraid 
of  that;  afraid  I  might  be  guided  by  devils  of  one  sort  or 
another.  Why,  you  are  Christians,  aren't  you?  Yes.  And 
it's  all  the  other  religions  who  look  for  guidance  to  outside 
gods  and  devils  and  ghosts  and  men  and  women  who  have 
died  and  what  not.  I  thought  the  one  thing  marking  a 
Christian  was,  he  believes  that  God  is  within  men?  " 

He  left  the  table  abruptly,  and  the  room;  rushed  out  of 
the  house  leaving  his  sapling-stick  behind.  Budded  like 
Aaron's  rod,  it  had  seemed  to  him,  a  few  hours  earlier,  a 
greater  miracle.  But  now  he  felt  sick — a  sick  man  in  a 
world  grown  wicked,  a  world  shortly  to  be  judged  and  the 
greater  part  of  it  eternally  damned. 

8 

Like  most  houses  of  its  day,  the  residence  of  Zophar 
Wines  was  almost  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk.  Therefore 
it  befell  that  Walt's  initial  velocity  carried  him  into  heavy 
collision  with  another  and  more  feebly-moving  body — a 
body  which  seemed  unfitted  to  sustain  impacts. 


40  THE   ANSWERER 

"  Gosh!   .  .  .  Forgive  me!     I'm  sorry." 

Selah  Mulford,  the  younger,  propped  himself  with  his 
hands,  his  legs  remaining  disjecta  membra  on  the  ground. 

"  Sorry?     Sho'm  I,  sho'm  I." 

"  Why  .  .  .  it's  you,  eh,  Selah?  " 

"  Name's  Beelzebub,"  came  a  languid  correction. 
"Name's  Beelzebub."  With  sudden  energy:  "Ever  shee 
me  b'fore?  I'm  th'  Prinshe  of  Dev'ls.  H'lo,  li'l  Dev'l!  " 
He  greeted  Walt  affectionately. 

"  Here."  Walt  was  bending  over,  with  gentle  lifting  tugs. 
"  Get  up,  Selah.  You  remember  me,  don't  you?  Walt? 
Walt  Whitman?  " 

"Thish  th'  end  o'  th'  world,"  stated  the  sitter.  "As 
Beelzebub,  Prinshe  of  Dev'ls,  I'm  here  to  claim  my  own." 

He  meditated,  physically  inert. 

"  I  came  here  d'rect  from  my  infernal  abode  (hiccough) 
.  .  .  wash  prosheeding  awright,  revolvin'  on  m'  own  axshis 
when —  What,  'xshactly  happened?  " 

"  I  ran  into  you — didn't  see  you — coming  out  of  Mr. 
Wines's  house  here." 

A  light  of  recognition  dawned  triumphantly.  .  .  .  Young 
Mulford  struggled  to  his  feet.  Swaying  against  Walt,  he 
proclaimed: 

"Thash  it— Winesh!  Thash  the  countershine.  Musht 
remember  t'  give  it  when  challengshe'.  Come,  have  a 
drink!  " 

I'm  damned  if  I  don't!  was  Walt's  inner  reaction  to  this 
invitation.  As  he  hooked  his  arm  in  Selah  Mulford's  he 
saw  again  the  eyes  of  the  girl,  Temperance,  like  a  sunless 


THE   ANSWERER  41 

winter  morning.  And  the  face,  incapable  of  a  smile;  a  little, 
self-conscious  blush  was  all  it  ever  exhibited.  .  .  . 

The  Woodchuck  Hole,  as  the  tavern  was  called,  stood 
hospitably  open;  there  was  a  bustle  about  the  bar  due  to 
arrivals  on  the  noon  stages.  Greetings  fusiladed  in  Walt's 
direction,  with  a  few  comments  on  his  escort. 

"Well,  ef  here  ain't  Selah  back  agin!  " 

"Hello,  thar— Hosanna!  " 

Hard  cider,  whisky  and  rum  were  offered  to  the  thirsty. 
It  was  before  the  day  of  beer;  there  were  no  light  wines, 
but  Madeira  or  port  was  available  for  those  who  drank  ex 
pensively.  Walt  and  Selah  took  hot  rum  sweetened  with 
a  drop  of  molasses. 

"  Tears  to  me  half  of  Babylon's  here." 

Walt  addressed  the  proprietor  of  the  Woodchuck  Hole, 
who.  grinned  as  he  replied:  "  This  here  new  seck's  been 
won'erful  for  trade.  There's  three  sets  o'  people.  Some  be 
lieves  as  how  the  end  o'  everything's  coming  Saturday  week; 
some  disbelieves  it;  some — and  they're  the  biggest — allows 
as  they  don't  know  but  they're  takin'  no  chances!  They're 
takin'  a  nip  whilst  they're  sure  of  gettin'  it.  Mortal  scared, 
some  on  'em  are,  too." 

"  I  hear  Mr.  Sammis's  preaching  the  end." 

"Yep.  But  I  ain't  scoring  up  any  liquor.  Them  as 
drinks  pays  their  money  right  down  on  the  shelf!  " 

Walt  finished  his  second  glass  of  rum.  "  Have  'nozzer," 
Selah  Mulford  insisted  heavily.  But  Walt  shook  his  head 
and  took  a  fresh  grip  on  his  companion's  arm.  "  Come  on, 
Selah,  you've  had  enough.  We've  got  to  git!  " 


42  THE  ANSWERER 

"  Whash  use  goin'  anywhere?  " 

"Well,  the  world  ain't  at  an  end  yet!  " 

Amid  some  friendly  derision  Walt  conducted  the  young 
man  outside,  turning  from  the  main  street  to  a  lane  that  led 
south  and  ended,  after  they  had  made  a  slow  progress  of 
less  than  half  a  mile,  at  the  shore  of  the  Great  South  Bay, 

"  Jump  in!  " 

"Here  .  .  .  hoi'  on,  Walt!  " 

A  brief  struggle  was  followed  by  a  prodigious  splash.  A 
moment  later  the  temporary  Beelzebub  was  frantically 
scrambling  up  the  short  piling  that  bulwarked  the  shore. 
Walt  fled  like  the  wind.  A  dripping  savage  pursued,  and 
finally  overtook  him.  They  wrestled  breathlessly. 

"  Damn  you,  Selah,  you've  got  me  all  wet!  " 

Nothing  could  have  exceeded  in  effectiveness  the  obvious 
retort,  except,  possibly,  the  manner  in  which  Selah  made  it. 

9 

This  was  a  Thursday;  the  end  of  everything  being  still 
nine  days  distant;  and  because  it  would  never  do  to  abandon 
young  Mulford  in  that  time  Walt  dragged  him  with  himself 
over  to  the  Great  South  Beach;  and  also  because,  on  the 
beach,  there  was  no  Woodchuck  Hole  and  no  sidewalk  lead 
ing  past  Zophar  Wines's  front  door. 

The  season  was  rather  unusually  advanced;  one  got  the 
feeling  of  the  approaching  month  as  June,  rather  than  May. 
There  was  no  longer  the  suggestion  of  ice  along  the  ocean 
shore,  mornings;  the  dull,  soft  brown  of  the  bayside 
meadows  gave  a  hint  of  changing  color  to  pale,  delicious 
green.  Hourly,  it  seejned,  through  the  day  flights  of  birds 


THE   ANSWERER  43 

Streamed  overhead,  going  northward.  The  sun,  in  any 
shelter  from  the  wind,  poured  down  a  heat  not  markedly 
different  from  that  of  midsummer.  Bracing  weather,  bracing 
but  perfect.  .  .  . 

The  two  young  men,  lightly  provisioned,  quartered  them 
selves  in  one  of  the  very  few  habitations  on  the  beach,  a  one- 
room  shack  put  up  for  the  use  of  fishermen.  The  long 
stretch  of  sand  dunes,  never  exceeding  a  half-mile  in  width, 
separated  from  Babylon  by  seven  miles  of  salt  water,  had, 
in  its  incomparable  loneliness  and  sea-born  beauty,  just 
the  effect  upon  Selah  Mulford  that  Walt  hoped  for.  The 
Woodchuck — Walt's  name  for  him — resumed  his  twenty- 
year-old  nimbleness.  This  boisterousness  sometimes  re 
lapsed  into  long  periods  of  contemplation — "  but  not  think 
ing  very  much  about  anything  " — which  better  suited  Walt's 
own  habit.  At  such  times  the  two  would  thrash  over  their 
problems. 

"Walt!  " 

"Hi,  Woodchuck!  " 

"  Ever  love  a  girl?  " 

"  N-no.  Not  yet." 

"Well— don't!  " 

"  Not  aimin'  to." 

"  Oh  .  .  .  'f  course  not.  Fellow  never  is!  I'm  saying: 
Don't." 

"  Ain't  you  over  that  by  this  time?  "    A  little  derisively. 

The  Woodchuck  spoke  with  sudden  vehemence: 

"  What  in  hell  do  you  know  about  it,  anyway?  " 

"  What  in  hell  made  you  ever  think  you  was  in  love  with 
Temperance  Wines — anyway?  " 


44  THE   ANSWERER 

The  patient  sank  back  on  the  sand,  his  head  pillowed  on 
his  hands.  Walt  risked  a  cast: 

"  'Twasn't  anything  she  said  or  did,  I  bet." 

"  Mebbe  not  "—sulkily. 

"  Well,  then,  'Chuck—" 

The  Woodchuck  elevated  himself;  glared  at  his  pesterer. 

"  'F  you  want  to  know  .  .  .  Walt,  it  was  the  look  of  her 
— something  in  her  face,  I  can't  describe  it,  makes  you  feel 
as  if  she  provoked  you,  like  a  flower  out  o'  reach.  I  don't 
mean  she's  pretty"  he  went  on,  "  nor  handsome.  Tem 
perance's  no  beauty,  only,  there's  that  about  her  makes  her 
seem  the  only  one  of  her  kind.  I  guess  you're  understand 
ing  what  I  mean,"  he  finished,  his  keen  eyes  on  Walt's  con 
fessing  countenance. 

"  But,  'Chuck,  you  ain't  saying  did  you  love  her?  " 

The  Woodchuck  squirmed.  "  Ain't  that  love?  "  he  de 
manded.  "  What — what  is  it,  then  " — rather  feebly. 

Walt  mused.    "  'Pears  to  me  like — hunting,"  he  said. 

"  She's  not  that  kind  of  a  girl!  " 

"  You  mean  you're  not  that  kind  of  a  fellow!  " 

"  I  ain't  no  worse'n  you  are,  Walt  Whitman!  I'm  a  sight 
better'n  most  of  the  fellows  I  know." 

"  There's  something  about  a  girl  like  Temperance,"  Walt 
commented  aloud,  "  raises  the  dickens  in  a  man.  ...  So 
almighty  pure  and  cold!  You  wonder  if  you  could  make 
her  human.  Ain't  that  so?  " 

"  Guess  that's  so.    But  look  here:     You're  not  by 
of  being  fair.    I  didn't  just  think  about  Temperance  like 
that.    I — I  admired  her — worshiped  her,  in  a  way!    Always 


THE   ANSWERER  45 

kept  thinking:  She's  'way  above  me  in — in  goodness.  Any 
how  things  went,  she'd  be  right." 

"  Prop  you  up.  I  see.  'Stead  of  that,  she  knocked  the 
few  remaining  props  right  from  under  you." 

"  A-a-ah!     You  don't  know  anything  about  it!  " 

"I'm  here  to  be  set  right,  to  learn,"  Walt  submitted. 
"I've  a  real,  lively  curiosity  about  something  that  might 
happen  to  me,  if  not  to-day,  then  to-morrow." 

"  It  won't  be  the  same  with  you.  It  isn't  the  same  with 
any  two  fellows,  I  bet.  Besides,  you're  different  from  most 
men." 

"  How?  "    Walt  felt  affronted. 

"  Oh,  you — you  love  'em  all ;  love  everybody ;  that  satis- 
•fies  you;  your  guts  is  different.  Walt,  you've  no  notion 
what  I've  been  through — hell!  I  get  so  sick  sometimes  I 
think  the  only  way  to  be  clean  and  halfway  decent  and  get 
back  any  self-respect  is  to — to  marry  some  good  girl — if 
she'd  have  me  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  his  teeth  closing  on  his  lip,  and  two  tears 
rolled  down  his  boyish  face.  Walt's  eyes  shone,  too,  and 
the  look  he  gave  the  Woodchuck  was  a  look  of  great  love. 
And  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand  toward  the  other,  Walt  said: 

"  'Chuck  .  .  .  don't  I  know!  But  you  couldn't  have 
married  Temperance  Wines,  not  and  been  happy!  Say,  you 
tell  me  if  a  girl  like  her  who  never  felt  a  wicked  impulse  in 
her  life,  mebbe — anyway  an  impulse  she'd  call  wicked — 
could  make  a  wife,  a  wife,  for  a  fellow  like  you — or  me,  or 
most  of  us?  It  ain't  reasonable.  .  .  .  You  and  I  ain't  got 
the  temperament  to  live  that  way.  Why,  all  those  sort  of 


46  THE   ANSWERER 

people  die  in  the  performance  of  their  duty! — because  what 
ever  they  do  is  a  discharging  of  their  duty,  never  a  pleas 
ure,  never  a  deep,  joyous  satisfaction." 

"  Read  me  something,  Walt ;  or  no,  make  up  something 
to  recite.  That'd  be  better." 

"  'Chuck — I  can't  say  the  things  I  aim  to  say.    Not  yet." 

"  Go  on!     Say  them  anyhow!  " 

Walt  propped  his  head  in  his  hands,  his  elbows  resting  on 
his  knees.  His  eyes  were  fixed  lovingly  on  Selah  Mulford's 
face.  After  a  while  his  voice  broke  the  silence  between 
them  and  imposed  a  tiny  pattern  of  human  words  against 
the  steady  intonations  of  the  surf. 


"  A  young  man  came  to  me  with  a  message  from  his  brother, 
How  know  the  message ;  how  know  that  he  came  from  his 

brother — and  my  brother? 

How  know  the  whether  and  when  of  his  brother? 
Tell  him  to  give  me  ...  signs. 

"I  stand  before  the  young  man  face  to  face;  I  take  his  right 

hand  in  my  left  hand,  his  left  in  my  right  hand, 
And  I  answer  for  his  brother  and  for  .  .  .  men  ...  I  answer 
for  the  Poet,  and  send  these  signs : 

"  Him  all  wait  for  .  .  .  him  all  yield  up  to  ...  his  word  is 

decisive, 
Him  they  accept  "—Walt  gestured  toward  the  ocean—"  in  him 

lave  .  .  . 
Him  they  immerse,  and  he  immerses  them." 

He  stopped;  his  hands  rested  palms  downward  on  the 
sand;  his  body  was  immobile  but  the  light  in  his  eyes,  some 
strong  radiation  of  physical  health  and  magnetism  proceed 
ing  from  him,  held  Selah  Mulford  in  a  thralldom  of  surprise, 
an  emotional  vise  so  strong  that  the  youth  could  not  tell, 
afterward,  whether  admiration  or  latent  awe  or  a  noble 


THE   ANSWERER  K        47 

curiosity  made  him  powerless   to  do  more  than  breathe 
lightly.  .  .  .  Walt's  voice  was  like  a  clear- toned  bell: 


"He  puts  things  in  their  attitudes, 
He  puts  to-day!  out  of  himself  .  .  .  with  plasticity  .  .  .  and 

love  .  .  . 

What  can  be  answered  he  answers,  and  what  cannot  be  an 
swered  he  shows  how  it  cannot  be  answered. 
He  is  the  .     .  Answerer  .  .  ." 


Ceased  the  bell-like  tones,  ended  the  chant  on  that  word 
"  Answerer  "  stressed  so  musically  on  the  first  syllable,  fin 
ishing  in  a  light  murmur  lost  in  the  wash  of  waters  just 
beyond  them.  Walt  leaped  to  his  feet,  stood  erect,  poised, 
free,  eagerly  youthful,  youthfully  yearning.  His  flung-apart 
arms  fell,  he  dropped  to  the  sand  beside  the  other,  clasped 
him,  exclaimed: 

"  Oh,  Selah,  if  a  man  can  only  feel  everything,  he'll  know 
everything!  And  he'll  be  able  to  answer  every  unsatisfied 
need  of  our  natures!  The  rich,  the  poor,  the  ennui 'd  and 
the  lonely,  the  happy  and  the  miserable,  the  chaste  and  the 
soiled,  the  unclean — all,  all  will  respond  to  him,  and  he  to 
them.  He'll  have  his  poems  wrought  not  in  words  but  in 
lives,  in  human  flesh  and  bone  and  nerves  and  red,  pulsed 
blood!  He'll  be  an  Answerer.  Oh,  Selah,  that's  what  I 
want  to  be!  " 

10 

But  there  were  many,  many  hours  in  which  it  seemed  to 
Walt  that  he  was  only  a  carnal  creature.  The  strength  of 
these  lusts  of  the  flesh  frightened  him;  he  was  not  different 
from  other  young  men  in  that  satisfaction  brought  shud- 


48  THE   ANSWERER 

ders.  The  awful  despondency  from  which  not  even  the  sym 
pathetic  companionship  of  the  Woodchuck  could  save  him 
finally  provoked  in  Walt  a  spiritual  rebellion.  He  said  to 
his  comrade  one  day: 

"  'Chuck,  it's  no  use;  I'm  bad,  bad!  Where  I  hoped  there 
might  be  some  gold  in  my  composition,  I'm  streaked  with 
clay  instead.  You  know  what  I  am;  I  don't  see  how  you 
can  endure  being  with  me.  Tell  me,  now,  how  is  it?  " 

The  Woodchuck  was  embarrassed  to  find  words. 

"  Well,  Walt,  whenever  I  go  wild  and  start  to  wade  across 
the  bay  for  liquor,  you  hold  me  back,  don't  you?  You're 
doing  something  for  me!  " 

"  Trouble  is,  I  can't  do  anything  for  myself." 

Selah  Mulford  groped  for  a  great  truth;  said  finally: 

"  Walt!  If  you  can  do  something  for  any  one  else,  it's 
time  to  quit  worrying  about  yourself!  " 

"  My  Star  and  Garter!  Guess  you're  right,  'Chuck.  .  .  . 
Must  be  nigh  midday;  the  sun's  high.  And  hot!  What  do 
you  say  to  a  bath  in  the  ocean?  The  water '11  be  like  ice, 
but  there's  no  wind;  weather's  as  warm  as  July,  almost." 

Leisurely  they  stripped,  picked  their  barefooted  way  care 
fully  over  broken  shells  and  bits  of  splintered  driftwood  and 
together,  with  a  shout,  ran  with  swashing  strides  down  the 
shelving  lip  of  the  sand  until  they  stood  waist-high  in  the 
Atlantic.  Though  the  day  was  windless,  a  tumbling,  racing 
surf  remained  from  the  southeasterly  winds  of  several  days 
before. 

The  water,  virginally  green  and  blue,  pricked  like  a  thou 
sand  needles.  To  escape  its  instant  numbing  effect  Walt 
and  his  comrade  kept  incessantly  in  the  liveliest  motion. 


THE  ANSWERER  49 

They  danced,  shrieked,  pummelled  each  other;  desisted  to 
duck  a  glittering  comber;  sprang  to  the  summit  of  a  breaker, 
riding  it  for  a  second  like  seahorses  until  it  flung  them 
sprawling  on  the  slope  of  the  shore.  Then,  breathless,  faces 
dripping  and  their  eyes  alone  apparently  alive  in  naked, 
half-drowned  bodies,  the  two  lay  still  for  an  interval,  re 
garding  each  other  impenetrably.  With  a  yell  Walt  leaped 
toward  Selah  Mulford.  Too  late!  In  a  twinkling  there  was 
nothing  but  the  sky  and  the  ocean  and  the  wide  sand  along 
which,  like  reawakened  figures  from  a  frieze  of  Hellenic 
sculpture,  one  beautiful  Greek  sped  in  pursuit  of  another. 

Heads  down,  chests  heaving,  feet  spurning  the  sand ;  dodg 
ing,  twisting,  turning;  the  faint  whistling  of  breath  inaudible 
in  the  symphonic  racket  of  the  surf,  neither  of  these  primi 
tives  caught  sight  of  a  company  of  people  gradually  assem 
bling  on  the  crests  of  the  dunes.  They  interlocked  in  strug 
gle;  fell  apart,  exhausted;  and  were  mute  with  astonish 
ment,  gazing  at  each  other,  when  there  first  came  to  them, 
as  from  suddenly-opened  heavens,  the  sound  of  voices,  un 
accompanied  by  any  instrument,  lifted  in  song: 


"Thy  kingdom  come,  O  God! 
Thy  rule,  O  Christ,  begin ! 
Break  with  Thine  iron  rod 
The  tyrannies  of  sin! 

"Where  is  Thy  reign  of  peace, 
And  purity,  and  love  ? 
When  shall  all  hatred  cease?  .  .  ." 


The  singers,  clothed  in  white  raiment,  stood  in  a  circle, 
those  nearest  the  ocean  shore  facing  away  from  it.    Walt 


50  THE   ANSWERER 

and  'Chuck,  running,  stooped,  to  the  base  of  the  dunes,  be 
gan  with  frantic  contortions  to  clothe  themselves. 

"We  pray  Thee,  Lord,  arise  .  .  . 
Revive  our  longing  eyes, 
Which  languish  for  Thy  sight." 

The  hymn  tune,  "  St.  Cecelia/'  virtually  a  plain  chant, 
carrying  in  its  second  bar  a  modulation  to  the  dominant, 
returning  to  the  tonic  for  an  exquisitely  ascending  petition 
before  the  reposeful  close,  floated  out  over  the  vociferous 
ocean  and  ascended  to  the  blue  sky  in  which  the  gold  flame 
of  the  sun  burned  with  an  unwavering  radiance.  The  two 
young  men,  as  if  arrested  by  the  perception  of  something 
bizarre  yet  touching,  stood  their  ground,  lips  parted,  eyes 
downcast. 

"O'er  heathen  lands  afar 
Thick   darkness   broodeth  yet." 

Afar,  of  course;  and  yet,  somehow,  just  out  of  sight  be 
yond  the  sparkling  plain  before  them.  Lands  of  strange 
temples  and  fantastic  towers,  of  men  with  hideous  faces, 
filed  teeth,  and  women  some  of  whom  were  completely  veiled, 
some  wholly  unclad.  The  fresh,  salty  air  of  the  sea  deserted 
the  nostrils  which  inhaled  odious  smells  mingled  with  suave, 
spiced  incense.  .  .  .  The  pure  voices  of  the  women  among 
the  singers,  clear-toned  soprani,  took  up  the  last  poetic 
words  in  which  the  prayer  of  the  hymn  was  consummated 
and  the  faith  of  the  petitioners  most  perfectly  expressed: 


'Arise,  O  morning  Star, 
Arise  .  .  .  and  never  set.' 


THE   ANSWERER  51 

Walt  and  Selah  Mulford  exchanged  inquiring  looks  and 
nods.  Then,  without  any  words,  they  clambered  up  the 
slope. 

zi 

There  were  about  half  a  hundred  people,  pretty  evenly 
divided  between  men  and  women  with  a  sprinkling  of  chil 
dren;  the  band  of  Adventists  was  led  by  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Sammis  of  Babylon;  Zophar  Wines  and  Temperance  Wines 
were  among  them. 

All  without  exception  were  attired  in  white  but  the  gar 
ment,  long,  loose  and  flowing,  varied  considerably  as  to  cut 
and  material  with  the  wearer.  Some  had  apparently  pro 
cured  the  finest  linen;  a  few  wore  cheesecloth;  the  children 
had  not  kept  spotless  and  even  some  of  the  adults  exhibited 
rents  and  torn  places  where  catbriar  had  caught  them  on 
their  way  to  the  dunes.  Well  out  on  the  bay  the  two  boats 
which  had  ferried  over  the  pilgrims  could  be  seen  heading 
back  to  Babylon.  Noting  this,  the  Woodchuck  whispered 
to  Walt: 

"  D'ye  suppose  any  of  the  crowd  made  a  private  arrange 
ment  to  return,  Walt,  just  in  case — " 

Walt  answered  with  a  twinkle  but  nudged  for  quiet.  The 
Reverend  Mr.  Sammis  was  speaking: 

"  Dearly  beloved  brethren  ...  ye  know  that  the  Book 
is  sealed  with  seven  seals  .  .  .  and  it  hath  been  foretold  that 
as  the  seals  are  opened  there  shall  appear  four  horses  with 
riders  ...  on  the  white  horse  rides  a  conqueror,  on  the  red 
horse  rides  a  slayer  with  sword,  on  the  black  horse  is 
mounted  famine,  on  the  pale  horse  rides  pestilence  .  .  . 


52  THE   ANSWERER 

then  are  the  saints  apparelled  in  their  white  robes;  the 
sixth  seal  being  opened,  there  cometh  a  great  earthquake; 
the  sun  blackens,  the  moon  is  as  blood;  the  stars  fall  to 
earth  as  a  fig-tree  casteth  her  figs  untimely  when  shaken  of 
a  mighty  wind;  the  heaven  departeth  as  a  scroll  rolled  to 
gether  and  every  mountain  and  island  is  moved  from  its 
place  .  .  ." 

The  expressions  on  the  faces  ranged  from  entranced  devo 
tion  to  sweat-pouring  terror.  A  frightened  child  wailed  at 
even  intervals;  some  trembled  so  they  could  not  keep  their 
feet.  Walt  and  his  fellow  clutched  each  other,  watching, 
listening,  communicating  by  finger-grips  their  shared  sense 
of  the  futile  agony  of  the  scene.  Then  Walt,  with  a  shove, 
drew  Selah  Mulford  away  with  him.  In  silence  the  two 
youths  dropped  down  to  the  ocean  shore  and  stumbled  off 
toward  the  shack  where  they  got  their  meals  and  slept. 
Once,  as  they  went,  Walt  stopped;  seemed  to  be  listening; 
broke  the  quiet  between  them  by  throwing  back  his  head  for 
a  prodigious  laugh.  .  .  . 

12 

The  Woodchuck  looked  at  him  with  curiosity  but  Walt 
offered  no  explanation  of  the  laugh  until  bacon  was  sizzling 
in  the  pan.  Then,  as  he  poured  out  cider  for  both,  he  ex 
claimed: 

"To-night!     To-night  .  .  ." 

He  refused  to  explain  further.  Through  the  afternoon, 
spent  lounging  on  the  ocean  shore,  they  had  an  animated 
and  curious  debate,  "  for,"  as  Walt  insisted,  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  twitching  a  little,  "  we  must  follow  the  great  his- 


THE   ANSWERER  53 

torical  examples  in  the  presence  of  Eternity — Socrates,  as 
an  instance.  'Chuck,  consider  that  I  am  Socrates  and  have 
drained  the  cup  of  hemlock,  and  shape  your  dialogue  ac 
cordingly!  Let  us  converse  on  a  high  plane!  " 

"  Then,  O  Socrates,  you  do  not  regard  death  as  the  great 
est  of  evils?  "  inquired  the  Woodchuck,  gravely. 

"  Aren't  you  forgetting  my  role?  "  asked  Walt.  "  As  So 
crates,  it  is  my  place  to  put  the  questions  and  trip  you  up 
neatly  on  your  answers." 

"  Forgive  me,  Socrates,  and  let  me  tell  you  that  since  you 
have  swallowed  that  stuff,  death  can  have  but  small  terrors 
for  you.  For  my  part,  I  believe  that  it  is  easier  to  die  than 
to  endure  what  we  saw  those  people  enduring  this  morning." 

"You  say  well,  'Chuck — er — Chuckibiades ;  for  the  ter 
rors  of  anticipation  exceed  everything  else.  But  tell  me: 
You  are  youthful,  high-spirited  and  turbulent,  the  cause 
of  many  public  scandals  in  Bab — er — Athens,  Long  Island. 
Have  you  never  thought  that  for  excesses  in  one  direction 
we  invariably  pay  by  extortions  in  another?  " 

"  No,  I  had  not  made  that  reflection,  Waltias." 

"Well,  does  it  not  strike  you,  Chuckophon,  that  these 
people  we  saw  have  exceeded  in  the  practice  of  some  virtues 
with  the  result  that  they  have  been  deprived  of  other  vir 
tues?  " 

"  No  doubt,  Waltocles,  but  ought  you  not  first  to  define 
virtue  in  general  and  then  give  us  full  particulars?  " 

"Virtue,"  said  Walt,  abandoning  his  role  and  studying 
a  bit,  "  is — let  me  see.  I'd  say,  Selah,  that  virtue  in  general 
is  the  highest  common  human  factor,  the  greatest  thing  pos 
sible  to  all  men  and  women." 


54  THE  ANSWERER 

"  The  greatest  good  of  which  all  men  and  women  are 
capable,  you  mean?  " 

"No!  The  greatest  thing — positive  trait  or  vital  prin 
ciple — they  are  capable  of  asserting  in  their  lives." 

"  Why  not  say:    Virtue  is  the  absence  of  vice?  " 

"  What!  Make  virtue  merely  negative,  and  vice  the  posi 
tive  force?  Certainly  not!  Why,  Selah,  isn't  that  just  the 
fatal  error  the  churches,  sects,  so  many  religions  fall  into? 
They  make  evil  a  positive,  active  power  in  the  world;  they 
talk  about  righteousness  but  they  make  righteousness  an 
empty  void,  lifeless  and  deadly,  a  condition  of  '  thou  shalt 
not '  do  this,  that  or  t'other.  Prohibition  is,  of  itself,  use 
less  in  a  living  world,  Selah.  It  can  never  be  extended  to 
cover  all  the  positive,  upspringing  forms  of  life — weeds  of 
evil,  if  you  like.  Take  Zophar  Wines.  There  is  a  com 
mandment  against  theft  but  none  against  usury." 

"  He  has  cancelled  all  his  mortgages." 

"  Good,  good!  At  the  end  of  his  life,  he  has  ceased  to 
rob,  has  made  restitution  as  of  May  i,  1840,  we  will  say." 

"I  see — pretty  late  to  weed  the  garden!  Some  of  the 
weeds  have  seeded.  .  .  .  But  I've  heard  you  say  you  didn't 
believe  in  consequences?  " 

"  Not  just  that!  I've  said  what  we  call  '  consequences  ' 
are  simply  guesses,  after  all.  There  is  a  Law  always  work 
ing — but  we  don't  know  it." 

"  Shakespeare  says,  the  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them; 
the  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones." 

"  Shakespeare  says  what  all  men  say  in  all  circumstances, 
even  to  contradicting  themselves.  You  can  no  more  ex- 


THE   ANSWERER  55 

press  the  whole  truth  in  a  quotation  than  you  can  achieve 
perfection  in  a  single  human." 

"  Walt  .  .  .  you  know,  these  days  over  here  you've  done 
me  a  lot  of  good." 

"  'Chuck,  you're  wrong!  I've  mebbe  done  you  harm;  if 
there's  good  it's  because  you've  done  yourself  good!  To 
live!  After  all,  that's  the  only  virtue,  the  only  positive 
trait,  vital  principle.  On  the  way  here  I  ran  across  a  boy 
and  a  girl " — he  related,  without  reticence  but  with  tender 
ness,  the  story  of  Jenny  and  Joel,  finishing:  "  Jenny  gave 
herself,  obeyed  her  instinct  which  was  a  pure  instinct  and 
therefore  infallible.  Something  positive,  something  lived,  an 
assertion  of  herself!  "  ' 

"  But  suppose  he  had  been  another  kind.  .  .  .  And  you 
tell  me,  Walt,  you  invited  him  to  leave — run  away  with 
you?  " 

"  How  sneaking  that  was  of  me,  wasn't  it?  But,  you  see, 
the  evil  I  urged  (evil,  so-called)  was  a  negative  thing,  power 
less  in  the  presence  of  the  genuine,  vital,  positive,  assertive 
good  Jenny  freely  offered.  The  strength  of  virtue!  Not  in 
innocence,  or  restraint  .  .  .  negation,  withholding.  It  lies 
in  inspired,  intuitive  action,  not  reasoned,  not  bargaining, 
but  giving,  giving!  .  .  .  from  an  inner  fund  of  inexhaustible 
good!  " 

13 

They  lay  there  and  separately  pondered.  It  seemed  to 
Selah  Mulford  that  Walt  had  expressed  the  whole  truth,  ex 
pressed  it  dangerously,  indeed,  for  its  perception  by  many 
intelligences — yet  more  completely  than  he  had  found  it  ex- 


56  THE   ANSWERER 

pressed  in  anything  his  own  twenty  years  had  heard  or  read. 
The  undiluted  truth,  he  thought  he  knew  enough  to  assert, 
would  always  be  dangerous.  Any  man  who  handled  it, 
handled  gunpowder.  The  truth,  which  alone  could  set  men 
free,  could  very  likely  only  do  so  by  destroying  them  and 
all  their  world  about  them.  The  business  of  society  was  to 
keep  the  powder  well-damped,  drying  a  little  now  and  then, 
permitting  a  slight  evaporation  so  that  a  small  amount  of 
the  explosive  might  be  used  judiciously.  .  .  .  The  Wood- 
chuck's  test  of  the  truth  of  what  Walt  had  said  was  to  ap 
ply  it,  imaginatively,  to  his  own  case.  He  was  certain  that 
if  Temperance  Wines  could  have  once  behaved  as  that  girl 
Jenny  had  behaved  he,  Selah  Mulford,  would  have  had  to 
respond  to  her  as  the  youth  Joel  had  responded — with  the 
gift  of  his  whole  soul.  For  it  was  her  soul  that  Jenny  had 
given.  .  .  .  Preposterous?  That  was  a  word  which  could 
only  be  applied  by  those  who,  having  given  nothing,  having 
received  nothing,  felt  nothing.  .  .  . 

He  looked  at  Walt,  lying  stretched  on  his  back  in  the 
shelter  they  had  found  at  the  foot  of  the  dunes,  and  won 
dered  about  him.  Wondered  what  would  become  of  a  man 
so  unusual,  so  strangely,  richly  endowed,  so  unafraid.  He 
was  a  genius,  of  course;  and  whatever  happened  he  would 
not  remain  obscure.  Still,  thought  Selah  Mulford,  is  it  a 
genius  that  the  world  can  use? 

By  his  side  Walt,  sun-warmed  and  happy,  was  not  think 
ing  but  attending  absently  to  the  sound  of  the  ocean.  He 
essayed,  at  first  very  unsuccessfully,  to  correlate  the  action 
of  eye  and  ear.  The  eye  saw  certain  undulations,  the  ear 
received  various  sounds.  With  words — poems — the  effect 


THEANSWERER  57 

striven  for  was  much  the  same.  While  the  poet  conjured  up 
a  picture  of  a  scene  or  person,  he  endeavored  at  the  same 
time  and  with  an  identical  means,  the  words  of  his  poem,  to 
enlist,  soothe,  or  perhaps  trouble,  agitate,  the  hearing.  The 
problem  was  to  make  a  pattern.  .  .  . 

People  appreciated  the  smooth,  regular  sound  of  a  water 
fall  who  heard  only  a  confused  noise  in  the  ocean.  They 
liked  stamped  calicoes  but  could  make  nothing  of  a  Turkey 
carpet.  Yet  almost  as  quickly  as  they  became  familiar  with 
a  pattern,  they  tired  of  it;  wanted  something  more  com 
plex,  different,  to  which  they  could  return  for  new  surprises 
and  the  constant  re-discovery  of  order  in  apparent  irregu 
larity. 

Rhythm.  .  .  . 

It  compassed  all  human  existence  as  the  sea  engirdled  the 
main.  Men  explored  Nature,  seeking  hidden  patterns,  ani 
mating  rhythm;  made  laws  .  .  .  patterns;  felt  love  .  .  . 
perceived  the  most  glowing  thread  in  the  pattern  they  were 
studying,  and  followed  it;  were  by  faith  enraptured  .  .  . 
faith  in  a  pattern  to  be  unriddled  for  them;  could  not  even 
conceive  of  their  God  apart  from  pattern,  since  they  held 
Him  to  have  made  them  in  His  own  image. 

0!  about  all  this  there  is  something  little  and  canting, 
something  less  than  human,  something  lifeless,  dead,  cramp 
ing  as  a  cheap  pattern!  Let  us,  thinks  Walt,  concern  our 
selves  only  with  the  animation,  the  large,  loose,  irregular 
rhythm  that  underruns  our  world!  How  intolerable  would 
this  ocean  be  if  it  echoed  the  same  set  of  sounds,  played 
one  fixed  tune  for  the  east  winds,  another  for  the  west;  if 
its  recitation  were  in  iambic  pentameters  for  sunshine  and . 


58  THE   ANSWERER 

muffled  strokes,  like  a  bell  tolled,  for  storm!  If  one  bark 
ened  minutely,  carefully — 

So  barkening,  one  caught  brief,  occasional  regularities  of 
sound,  recognizable  rhythms  but  always  detached,  frag 
mentary,  broken  in  upon,  never  allowed  to  become  tagged  or 
tiresome. 

He  recollected  with  a  sense  of  astonishment  the  times  he 
had  raced  up  and  down  this  beach  or  the  equally  lonely 
beach  at  Coney  Island  declaiming  to  the  surf  and  seagulls 
by  the  hour — spouting  Homer  after  the  model  of  the  prac 
tising  Demosthenes,  though  doing  it  out  of  sheer  exuberance, 
thrill,  and  not  to  master  any  part  of  the  art  of  the  orator. 
Jackass ! 

"  'Chuck!  " 

"  Eh?  " 

"  Demosthenes  was  a  fool.  The  ocean's  the  only  thing 
worth  hearing  with  a  pebble  in  its  mouth.  Instead  of  spout 
ing  just  to  hear  himself  talk,  why  didn't  he  listen?  "  A 
pause.  "  He  might  have  heard  something  " — in  a  whisper. 

14 

Over  supper  they  were  two  harum-scarum  boys  again. 

"  To-night!  " 

"  Well,  what  of  to-night?  You  said  that  this  afternoon. 
Going  to  join  the  Adventists  up  there,  on  the  dunes?  " 

"  Follow  me." 

They  went  out  into  the  darkness,  a  magnificent  splendor 
as  palpable  as  noonday,  pierced  aloft  with  the  prismed  flame 
of  stars,  thinned,  whitened  by  the  low  line  of  the  surf.  As 
yet,  no  moon.  The  shifting  wind  was  now  northwesterly, 


THE   ANSWERER  59 

but  light,  fitful.  Walt,  wetting  his  finger  to  detect  the  quar 
ter  whence  it  came,  gave  a  satisfied  murmur.  "  Pretty  soon 
'twill  blow." 

"  A  great  rushing  wind  .  .  .  from  Heaven  ...  to 
cleanse  an  impure  world."  Selah  Mulford's  tone  was  half- 
believing. 

And  for  a  moment  they  gripped  each  other,  looking  sea 
ward  where  a  ghostly  foam  played. 

"  It's  unreal,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Ah,  it's  beautiful  .  .  .  has  its  own  reality." 

They  tramped  along  at  the  base  of  the  dunes.  A  figure 
materialized  out  of  the  dusk  in  front  of  them.  They  came 
close,  peered,  and  Selah  Mulford  exclaimed:  "  Why,  it's 
Dan  Dibble." 

A  pathetically  disproportioned  little  man.  He  had 
divested  himself  of  the  white  robe  of  the  Adventists,  carry 
ing  it,  crumpled,  in  one  hand.  With  the  other  he  grasped 
and  held  them,  his  skinny  fingers  gathering  in  the  cloth  of 
their  coats  at  the  breast.  The  impression  derived  from  the 
little  man's  thickened  speech  was  one  of  terror  mixed  with 
unbelievable  calculation. 

"  I  see'd  you,"  he  declared  confidentially  to  both  the 
young  men.  "  First-off,  I  see'd  Selah;  then  I  reckernized 
Walt,  here.  I  guess  you  ain't  expectin'  anything  to  hap 
pen.  The  hour's  three  in  the  morning.  Then  a  trumpet 
blast'll  sound.  I  don't  know's  I  kin  say's  I  really  look  for 
...  It.  But  mebbe  it's  jest  as  well  to  be  ready.  Only,  I 
ain't  ready.  I — I've  a  good  many  sins  on  my  conscience." 
He  must  have  been  shaking,  for  his  hand,  grasping  first  one 
then  the  other,  trembled.  "  Ain't  either  'f  you  making  any 


60  THE   ANSWERER 

reckoning  on  the  End?  "  He  was  obviously  trying  to  see 
their  faces,  read  what  they  felt. 

"  No,"  they  admitted.    He  seemed  doubtfully  relieved. 

"  Well,  I  had  to  git  away  " — as  if  an  apology  were  called 
for — "  being  as  how  it  onnarves  me  so.  Maybe  I'll  git  back 
to  'em  'fore  three  o'clock.  I  been  clost  to  death  onct  or 
twice  and  it  didn't  trouble  me  any;  funny  I  feel  so  'pset 
about  this,  ain't  it?  Some  'f  'em  seem  right  happy;  look  on 
it  as  a  deliverance  out  of  their  troubles.  There's  the  Wid- 
der  Tabe,  who  was  by  way  of  losin'  her  homestead;  Zophar 
Wines  was  going  to  foreclose.  Now  he's  cancelled  the  mort 
gage  so  she's  safe  whatever  happens.  Alsop  Horton's  get 
ting  a  riddance  o'  that  shrewish  wife  o'  his'n,  for  he  figgers 
either  they'll  be  apart  or  else  her  nater'll  be  different.  And 
so  forth."  His  tone  throughout  was  serious.  He  sighed. 
"  Well,  I  won't  detain  you  .  .  ." 

He  took  a  step,  halted  and  came  back  to  say  in  a  lowered 
voice: 

"  Likely  the  one  for  whom  it's  the  greatest  deliverance 
out  of  her  trouble  is  that  daughter  of  Hannah  Furrier's — 
you  know,  Sarah;  the  onmarried  one  .  .  ."  And  left 
abruptly. 

Walt  and  Selah  moved  slowly  on  through  the  dusk. 

"  I  can't  sleep  to-night;  can  you?  " 

"  No." 

A  half-hour  or  so  later,  Walt  was  saying: 

"  It's  a  poor  time  to  bring  the  world  to  an  end — very 
poor!  Look  at  this  country  of  ours.  It  hasn't  yet  lasted 
out  some  men's  lifetimes.  There's  old  Rumsey  Platt,  who 
fought  in  '76.  The  life  of  a  nation  ought  to  exceed  the  long- 


THE   ANSWERER  61 

est  life  of  any  man,  ought  to  span  a  couple  of  centuries; 
it  can't  be  judged  in  less.  These  States  are  just  an  experi 
ment  so  far." 

"  The  last  trump,  blowing  now,  would  be  an  awful  dis 
appointment  to  the  Whigs.  They're  counting  on  Novem 
ber." 

"  If  the  last  trump  blows  I  hope  the  deviPll  take  both  our 
political  parties!  They're  a  perversion  of  democracy,  they 
cumber  the  earth!  Our  representative  government  is  half 
a  century  old,  exactly,  and  already  there's  a  parasitic 
growth.  .  .  .  Spoils!  Spoils  of  office!  Why,  Selah,  there's 
more  than  one  lust  that  can  canker  society!  I  fear,  yet 
hope,  for  the  success  of  our  experiment.  Look  at  all  the 
centuries  behind  us  in  which  men  had,  for  the  most  part, 
only  their  private  concerns,  all  public  matters  being  beyond 
their  control  or  grasp.  Only  when  misgovernment  became 
unendurable  did  they  interfere,  make  public  affairs  their 
affair.  You  know,  in  founding  this  nation,  we  as  much  as 
said  to  ourselves  that  human  nature  could  be  changed— 
could  be  broadened.  The  proverb  is:  What's  everybody's 
business  is  nobody's  business.  This  republic  asserts  the 
principle  that  what's  everybody's  business  can  be  made 
each  individual's  business.  Can  it?  Ah,  it's  too  early  yet 
to  tell!  I  hope  so — but  I  have  fears  about  it.  Why?  Be 
cause  men  and  women,  so  many  of  them,  don't,  can't,  won't 
manage  their  own  affairs  with  wisdom.  You  think  I  mean 
property?  Well  .  .  .  perhaps  I  mean  property,  but 
scarcely  the  kind  you  imagine.  Not  worldly  goods;  chat 
tels.  No — lives!  There's  only  one  kind  of  property  as 
sured  to  each  man  and  each  woman,  and  that's  a  body  and 


fa  THE   ANSWERER 

soul  (I  don't  like  the  habit  of  making  a  sharp  division  be 
tween  the  two;  body  and  soul  are  fleshed  together  and  no 
real  distinction  between  them  is  possible — wouldn't  be  use 
ful  if  we  could  make  it).  Do  men  and  women  take  care  of 
the  one  precious  thing  that's  theirs?  do  they  procure  healthy 
bodies?  perfect,  expand  their  souls?  How  many?  Even 
in  this  grand,  new  country  with  all  its  breadth  of  outdoors 
— mountains,  waters,  climates,  forests,  fertile  soils — men  and 
women,  too  many  of  them,  live  by  outworn  customs,  ape  the 
habits  and  thoughts  of  the  past,  deliberately,  as  it  seems, 
enslave  themselves  to  all  sorts  of  superstitions  and  think 
the  only  kind  of  property  worth  having  is  the  kind  that's 
outside  themselves.  ...  To  get  that  they  will  rob  them 
selves!  Ain't  it  foolish,  damnable?  to  think  a  man  would 
rob  himself,  or  a  woman  would  rob  herself,  of  health,  hap 
piness,  home-fruition,  children,  clean-souledness,  a  full  and 
vigorous  enjoyment,  feasting  on  life,  to  get  something  he  or 
she  don't  need?  " 

Incredulous  contempt  rang  in  Walt's  voice.  .  .  . 

15 

Sometime  after  midnight  they  approached  cautiously  the 
dune  of  the  Adventists.  The  moon  was  out,  disclosing  the 
band  very  plainly.  The  embers  of  a  small  fire  of  driftwood 
glowed  in  the  center  of  an  irregular  circle  of  sleepers.  For 
one  and  all,  wearied  with  a  day-  and  nightlong  vigil,  men, 
women  and  frightened  children  had  sunk  to  rest.  Rest?  At 
any  rate  they  were  motionless  and  some  were  unmistakably 
past  consciousness.  Walt  and  the  Woodchuck  stood  look 
ing  at  them  for  some  time. 


THE   ANSWERER  63 

"  What  deviltry  have  you  been  meaning,  all  along,  Walt, 
with  your  '  To-night,  to-night!  '  D'you  think  to  blow  a 
fish-horn  along  about  three  o'clock?  " 

"  You  come  along,  'Chuck,  over  towards  the  bay  side." 

They  worked  their  way  through  scrub  and  brush  and 
emerged  on  the  edge  of  a  sedge  meadow.  The  fine  grass  was 
still  mostly  the  withered  brown  of  last  year's  late  growth. 
Again  Walt  noted  the  direction  of  the  wind,  still  northwest 
but  much  stronger.  Then  he  bent  down  and  fired  the 
meadow. 

"  Wish  I  had  a  loud  fish-horn,  'Chuck!  " 

But  the  Woodchuck,  suddenly  comprehending  all,  was 
helpless  with  rather  scandalized  laughter  . 

A  dense  cloud  of  stifling  smoke  formed  quickly  and  was 
carried  by  the  wind,  mostly  undiluted,  directly  over  the 
white-robed  sleepers.  The  mischief-makers,  scampering,  got 
to  the  vicinity  of  the  dune  in  time  to  hear  the  first  asphyx 
iated  cough.  Suddenly  from  the  midst  of  the  smoke-field 
there  came,  in  the  recognized  voice  of  Daniel  Dibble,  a  loud 
and  clear  pronouncement: 

"  Here  we  all  are  in  hell! "  Then  the  conclusion,  bitter 
but  philosophical — "  jest  as  I  expected!  " 

16 

"I'd  ought  to  be  kicked." 

Walt  spoke  penitently,  yet  he  looked  impenitent  still,  and 
both  he  and  Selah  Mulford  laughed  when  the  Woodchuck 
agreed: 

"  Yes,  you  ought.  What  say,  I  get  Dan  Dibble  to  do 
it?" 


64  THE   ANSWERER 

"  All  is  for  the  best  in  the  worst  possible  world.  That's 
a  reasonable  conclusion  to  arrive  at,  ain't  it?  Zophar  Wines 
is  clean-slated,  able  to  start  life  afresh  as  an  honest  man; 
the  Widow  Tabe  has  a  roof  that  may  leak  but  won't  be 
lifted  unless  by  hurricane;  even  Dan  Dibble's  mind  is 
easier." 

"  How  about  Alsop  Horton?    Is  he  happier?  " 

"  Who  knows  but  his  wife'll  cease  to  nag  him,  after  this 
ordeal  they've  gone  through  together?  " 

"What  did  the  Reverend  Sammis  say  whilst  you  talked 
with  him  this  morning,  Walt?  " 

Walt's  palm  smote  his  thigh.  He  rocked  a  little.  Then, 
with  seriousness: 

"That's  a  wonderful  man!  I  do  admire  that  preacher! 
It  seems  that  he  holds  the  end  of  the  world  did  come,  jest 
as  forecasted.  Yes!  He  said  to  me,  '  It  looks  like  the 
same  world,  but  it  ain't — isn't!  '  He'd  even  preached  a 
short  sermon  to  'em,  explaining  that,  as  daylight  was  com 
ing  on.  He'd  said:  '  Brethren,  I  was  wrong — we  all  were 
wrong — in  one  sense;  but  in  another  and  a  better  sense  we 
were  right!  The  end  of  everything  hasn't  come  in  the  man 
ner  we  persuaded  ourselves  it  was  coming.  Why?  I'm 
convinced  it's  because  we  misunderstood  what  is  meant  by 
the  Second  Coming.  I'm  convinced  that  what,  all  along,  has 
been  meant  is  the  coming  of  the  Lord  Christ  into  our  human 
hearts.  I  believe  He  has  come,  is  coming,  into  the  hearts 
of  all  of  us — will  enter  if  we  don't  wilfully  bar  Him  out. 
And  if  that  is  so,  then  the  world  we  knew  has  indeed  come 
to  an  end  and  a  Judgment  has  taken  place  and  a  new  Life  is 
beginning  for  each  one  of  us.  If  that  is  true,  and  it  rests 


THE   ANSWERER  65 

with  each  one  of  us  to  make  it  true,  then  the  thing  for  us 
to  do  is  to  go  back  to  Babylon  and  convince  our  neigh 
bors,  by  our  daily  lives  and  our  every  act,  that  something 
more  marvelous  has  happened  than  the  thing  we  dreamed 
of — and  in  this  particular  Change  they  will  have  to  be 
lieve!  ' 

"I  call  that  great  gospel,  great,  great!  "  finished  Walt. 

He  and  the  Woodchuck  were  again  alone  on  the  beach. 
Boats  manned  by  the  curious  and  skeptical,  appearing  from 
across  the  bay  that  morning,  had  ferried  home  the  group  of 
Adventists. 

"  That  explains  why  they  none  of  them  seemed  shame 
faced  or  angry  when  they  were  loading.  Mr.  Sammis's  good 
talk  must  have  plucked  them  up  powerfully,"  commented 
Selah  Mulford.  He  added:  "  Well,  here  we  are  alone  again 
with  a  fine  subject  of  conversation  lost  to  us.  Conversa 
tion?  How  long  've  we  been  over  here,  Walt?  This  is  the 
tenth  day,  isn't  it?  By  Jefferson!  " 

"  What?  " 

"  Here  we've  spent  ten  days  together,  with  some  down 
right  outspokenness  betwixt  the  two  of  us,  but —  Well! 
All  I  can  say  is,  I  never  in  my  life  spent  as  long  as  ten  hours 
— out  gunning  or  anything  like  that — with  another  fellow 
or  fellows  and  not  been  told  a  half-dozen  smutty  stories!  " 
He  put  his  head  to  one  side,  adding  quizzically:  "  Don't 
you  know  any  smutty  stories?  " 

"  I  don't  like  'em,"  Walt  answered,  shortly.  "  If  others 
want  to  tell  'em,  they  can  (as  you  say,  they  mostly  do). 
Why  the  devil  people  can't  think  and  behave  candidly  about 
sex,  is  beyond  me.  Sex  contains — all;  body  and  soul;  mean- 


66  THE   ANSWERER 

ings  and  proofs  and  purities.  Don't  you  feel  it  so,  'Chuck? 
I  do  believe  the  real  impurity  is  of  the  mind ;  maybe  it  comes 
of  an  undeveloped  spirituality,  the  souPs  arrested  growth. 
A  man  or  a  woman  may  commit  an  act  impure  (or  so  called) 
and  yet  be  and  remain  better,  sweeter,  more  wholesome  and 
more  honest!  than  another  man  or  woman  of  irreproachable 
conduct  but  diseased  spirituality,  soiled  mind,  dwarfed, 
shriveled  imagination." 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Walt—" 

Selah  Mulford  checked  himself,  but  soon  went  on: 

"  I  didn't  see  anything  of  that  girl  Dan  Dibble  spoke 
about  last  night,  did  you?  " 

"  In  the  boatloads  this  morning?    Who  was  she?  " 

"  Sarah  Furrier.  She's  the  youngest  daughter  of  old  Han 
nah  Furrier.  You  remember  Dan  Dibble  said  he  guessed 
likely  the  end  o'  everything  would  be  a  greater  deliverance 
for  her  than  for  most." 

"  I  wouldn't  know  her,"  said  Walt,  thoughtfully,  "  un 
less — Dibble's  tell  would  ...  be  enough  to  go  on.  Wasn't 
she  with  her  mother?  " 

"  Hannah  Furrier  wasn't  along." 

"  Sammis— he'd  look  after  her." 

"  He  might  have  overlooked  her  absence.  You  see,  Walt, 
I — I  don't  believe  very  many  know,  yet.  .  .  ." 

"  You  think  she  wasn't  with  'em  this  morning?  " 

"I'm  sure  of  it."  The  Woodchuck  spoke  with  formed 
conviction.  "  I  looked  'em  all  over,  interested  to  see  how 
they  were  taking  things.  Lord,  Walt!  You  don't  suppose 
any  thing's  happened  to  her,  do  you?  She  can't  have  stayed 
here  on  the  beach,  can  she?  " 


THE   ANSWERER  67 

The  thought  intimidated  them  both,  stood  in  their  eyes. 
Walt  spoke  quietly: 

"  We'll  have  to  search  and  make  sure.  She  couldn't  have 
...  in  the  disappointment —  But  we  won't  talk,  we'll 
travel!  " 

The  quest  was  never  begun.  A  sound  outside  the  door 
made  them  turn.  The  girl,  Sarah  Furrier,  appeared  framed 
in  the  doorway,  gave  a  dismayed  sound  at  the  sight  of  them, 
tried  to  steady  herself  with  one  hand  and  collapsed  on  the 
sill  before  Walt's  quick  leap  could  bring  his  arm  about  her. 

17 

She  was  conscious  as  they  lifted  her  up,  her  eyes  wide  with 
anguish,  and  after  they  had  laid  her  on  the  shakedown  bed 
she  began  quietly  sobbing.  The  Woodchuck,  male  and  help 
less,  stood  awkwardly  looking  down  at  the  girl;  but  Walt 
exhibited  an  instant  gentleness  and  tenderness  like  a  wo 
man's.  He  sat  beside  the  bed,  on  the  floor,  and  took  and 
held  her  hand;  his  gray-blue  eyes,  clear,  direct  and  unwav 
ering,  fastened  on  hers.  After  a  while  her  sobs  ceased,  the 
long-lashed  lids  drooped.  But  Walt  made  very  sure  she 
was  soundly  asleep  before  he  disengaged  her  hand  and  rose 
to  his  feet  noiselessly,  beckoning  to  Selah  Mulford.  They 
tiptoed  outside  and  whispered. 

"  What'll  we  do  with  her,  Walt?  " 

"  Take  her  home  as  soon  as  she's  slept  and  had  a  bite  to 
eat.  I  want  to  talk  with  her — can  maybe  help  her  a  little." 

"  Gosh  almighty!  /  couldn't  talk  with  her;  it's  as  much 
as  I  can  do  to  look  at  her.  Don't  believe  I  could  look  in 
those  eyes,  square.  They — they  make  a  fellow  feel  as  if  he 


68  THE   ANSWERER 

were  somehow  guilty,  as  if  he  were  to  blame  for  all  the 
wickedness  all  men  ever  did." 

"  It's  not  Sarah  Furrier  looks  at  you  from  those  eyes, 
Selah,  but  a  creature  unmercifully  dealt  with.  You  may 
see  the  same  look  in  the  eyes  of  a  dying  doe  or  in  the  eyes 
of  a  child  who  doesn't  understand  his  punishment.  It's  the 
hurt — too  often  mortal — to  the  soul." 

"  The  fellow  ought  to  be  killed!  " 

"  That  doesn't  go  deep  enough.  She  must  be  encouraged 
to  live!  .  .  .  don't  you  see?  " 

"No,  damn  me  if  I  do!  "  exclaimed  the  Woodchuck, 
wrathfully.  "  What's  life  going  to  hold  for  her  hereafter  ex 
cept  pain  and  misery  and  disgrace  and  sorrow?  " 

"  A  child." 

"  And  what'll  life  hold  for  her  child,  tell  me?  " 

"Love.  .  .  .  That's  all  life  holds  for  any  of  us,  when 
you  stop  to  think,  isn't  it  so,  Selah?  " 

18 

After  a  few  hours  she  awoke.  The  completeness  of  her 
exhaustion  had  been  overcome,  and  a  little  food  revived  her 
further.  She  sat,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Walt's  with  a  look  that 
had  regained  something  of  her  own  personality.  He  held 
her  hand  lightly  closed  in  his  own.  They  were  alone,  Selah 
Mulford  having  made  the  excuse  that  he  would  get  the  small 
boat  ready. 

"You  wandered  away  from  the  others  early  this  morn 
ing?  " 

"  I — I  couldn't  bear  the  disappointment.  To  know  I  had 
to  go  on  living!  to  face  ...  to  go  through  with—it —  I 


THE   ANSWERER  69 

thought  I  would  drown  myself.  I  walked  down  to  the  ocean 
.  .  .  but  as  I  stood  looking  at  the  water,  I  knew  I  couldn't 
go  through  with  that,  either." 

The  words  were  produced  with  difficulty.  The  look  of 
anguish  flitted  across  her  eyes. 

"  Isn't  it  likely — now — the  worst  is  all  over?  "  he  asked 
gently.  "We  don't  live  through  any  experience  twice;  and 
what's  been  lived  through  has  been  lived  through." 

She  was  silent,  but  her  eyes  seemed  to  draw  strength  from 
the  steadiness  of  his. 

"  He  knows?  "    She  nodded. 

"  And  has  offered  to  do  nothing?  "    A  second  nod. 

Walt  considered;  said,  in  an  even  tone: 

"  Perhaps  he  can  be  persuaded  to  offer  something." 

"No!  "  burst  from  her.    "He  never  pretended  he  loved 

3."  Her  tone  was  stricken.  "  I  thought  I  loved  him,  un 
til  I  told  him  and  he  denied  .  .  .  then  I  knew  I  didn't  love 
him.  It  was  just  as  if  he  were  dead  and  buried,  and  .  .  . 
the  other  one  wasn't  here  yet  to  love.  Will  I  love  it?  How 
can  I?  "  A  shudder  took  her. 

"  Steady!  "    Then  when  she  was  controlled: 

"  Love  it?  You've  got  to  love  it  so  boundlessly,  the  world 
will  seem  bright  to  it.  Your  love  has  got  to  guard  and  pro 
tect  .  .  ." 

A  returning  hail  proclaimed  that  the  little  catboat  was 
ready. 

The  sail  across  was  marked  by  desultory  talk  between 
Walt  and  Selah  Mulford.  At  Babylon,  Walt  took  Sarah 
Furrier  home. 

Hannah  Furrier  looked  at  the  young  man  with  acute  sus- 


70  THE   ANSWERER 

picion.  But  those  gray-blue  eyes  were  disarmingly  inno 
cent  .  .  .  unrioticing;  the  voice  was  merely  careless-courte 
ous. 

"  Brought  your  daughter  home  safe  and  sound,  Mrs.  Fur 
rier!  So  much  excitement  and  confusion  this  morning  the 
boats  got  off  without  her." 

Hannah  Furrier  replied  amiably.  .  .  .  Mr.  Whitman,  the 
one  that  had  taught  school  here  two  winters  back,  to  be  sure ! 
.  .  .  always  seemed  a  respectable,  nice  young  man. 

19 

"  Good-by,  'Chuck." 

"  Good-by.  .  .  .  Where  you  heading  for,  Walt?  " — asked 
wistfully. 

Walt  looked  puzzled;  shrugged,  and  laughed. 

"Wish  I  knew,  'Chuck!  Or— no.  Guess  I'd  rather  be 
spontaneous;  surprise  myself.  I've  a  thought  of  going  east 
a  ways,  might  even  revisit  Montauk.  You  sure  you  won't 
come?  " 

The  eyes  in  the  clean,  idealistic  face  of  Selah  Mulford 
were  slightly  somber;  had  lost  their  usual  look  of  compre 
hension  replied  to  by  a  light  defiance  of  things  seen.  One 
foot,  pivoted  on  the  heel,  turned  slowly,  crushing  gravel. 

"  Something  I've  got  to  study  out  here." 

Their  hands  had  been  lingering  in  a  farewell  clasp.  They 
exchanged  a  direct  gaze.  Suddenly  they  clung  together, 
kissed  and  swiftly  separated.  Walt  struck  east  with  gather 
ing  strides.  At  the  bend  of  the  road  he  looked  back,  waved 
and  shouted. 

Selah  Mulford  answered  the  gesture  but  not  the  hail. 


THE   ANSWERER  71 

When,  half  a  moment  later,  the  road  was  empty  except  for 
a  handful  of  stirred-up  dust  now  settling  back  into  place,  he 
turned  and  walked  steadily  until  he  came  to  Hannah  Fur 
rier's  cottage.  The  struggle  that  was  going  on  in  him  seemed 
to  be  intensified  at  the  sight  of  the  low-roofed  cottage,  close 
to  a  patch  of  tall,  smooth-columned  pine  trees  like  an  im 
provised  chapel  erected  as  an  adjunct  of  a  natural  shrine. 
The  image  pleased  him,  for  he  had  come  with  the  intention, 
nascent  but  emerging,  of  offering  sanctuary.  At  the  thought 
he  was  both  exalted  and  terrified. 

He  tried,  as  he  walked  past,  to  review  the  situation  with 
a  certain  calculated  clearness.  Since  those  hours  yesterday 
his  mind  had  scarcely  left  the  subject  of  Sarah  Furrier.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  think  of  her  abstractly.  His 
mind  had  been  fixed  quite  steadily  on  her  person.  The  look 
in  her  eyes  when  she  had  first  confronted  Walt  and  him 
self.  Her  undeniable  prettiness,  which  had  now  taken  on 
an  aspect  strange  to  his  lifelong  glimpses  of  her,  so  that 
she  appeared  no  longer  a  distinctly  pretty  girl  but  a  woman 
of  a  quite  inexplicable  and  impossible  sort  of  beauty. 
Through  a  sleepless  night  his  new  vision  of  Sarah  Furrier 
had  steadily  elaborated  itself. 

He  remembered  her  as  a  shy  thing,  not  at  all  the  kind 
to  encourage  advances.  He  supposed  that,  if  she  had  a 
lover,  or  if  one  came  to  her  in  the  role  of  a  lover,  all  the 
generous  instincts  in  her  must  probably  have  been  set  vibrat 
ing  with  such  violence  as  to  alter  the  whole  pitch  of  her 
nature.  She  would  never  be  the  same  again,  but  it  might 
very  well  be  that  the  tone  of  her,  nerves  re-strung  and  her 
emotions  retuned,  would  be  better,  more  golden,  with  a 


72  THE   ANSWERER 

fuller  resonance  and  a  surer  octave.  The  young  man  in 
dulged  in  this  figure  from  an  intuitive  comparison  with  the 
violin  which  he  sometimes  played  at  home,  but  very  un 
satisfactorily.  It  was  a  Cremona  instrument,  acquired  over 
a  century  earlier  by  an  ancestor  whose  mercantile  enter 
prises  had  necessitated  many  visits  to  Genoa  and  whose 
Italian  wife,  of  the  family  of  the  Marchesi  Brignole,  may 
have  infused  into  the  English  strains  of  the  Mulfords  that 
touch  of  unrest  and  desire  which  alters  temper  into  tem 
perament. 

Temper  is  fixed,  but  it  was  through  the  medium  of 
his  own  special  temperament  that  Selah  Mulford  saw  Sarah 
Furrier.  And  so  seen  she  had  become  to  him,  overnight, 
perplexingly,  tormentingly  desirable.  He  was  aware,  though 
orJy  faintly,  of  the  sensuous  appeal  she  had  for  him;  what 
really  weighed  was  a  complicated  tissue  of  emotional  con 
ceptions  threatened  by  conventional  doubts  which  he  hated 
even  as  he  forcedly  entertained  them.  Who  was  the  father 
of  her  child?  As  if  that  could  matter  in  the  light  of  his 
new  insight  upon  her!  Did  he  love  her?  If  not,  why  was 
he  suffering  now?  and  what  was  the  meaning  of  this  uncon 
trollable  impulse  to  offer  sanctuary?  Why  this  exaltation  at 
the  thought  of  her  consenting?  of  embracing  her?  and  why 
the  terror  lest  the  dominant  impulse  moving  him  be  only 
a  brief  assertion  of  the  instinct  of  nobility  and  a  sentimental 
satisfaction  of  the  instinct  to  sacrifice?  In  a  flash  of  pro- 
founder  self-understanding  he  saw  himself  as  merely  a  vic 
tim  of  circumstances — a  youth  depressed  by  his  own  weak 
indulgences,  numbed  by  the  misadventure  of  his  betrothal 
to  Temperance  Wines,  revived,  warmed  by  his  contact  with 


THE   ANSWERER  73 

Walt  and  flung  in  all  his  helplessness  into  this  desperate 
but  beautiful  adventure.  He  saw  this,  but  yet  not  even 
all  this  mattered.  .  .  . 

He  had  passed  the  cottage  and7  unconsciously  turning, 
had  come  back  and  now  found  himself  in  front  of  it  again. 
A  figure  stood  alone  under  the  pines. 

His  hand  lifted  the  latch  of  the  gate.  A  shadowy  realiza 
tion  of  how  communicatively  he  must  explain  came  over 
him.  With  Temperance,  there  had  been  no  need  to  ex 
plain;  expression  was  impliedly  an  impropriety.  But  this? 

His  memory  roused,  as  if  summoned  to  help  him  in  a 
supreme  moment.  It  echoed  words  of  a  few  days  before: 

"  He  puts  things  in  their  attitudes, 
He  puts   to-day!   out   of   himself  .  .  .  with   plasticity  .  .  .  and 

love  .  .  . 

What  can  be  answered  he  answers,  and  what  cannot  be  an 
swered  he  shows  how  it  cannot  be  answered." 

There  was  that,  then,  to  do  ...  this  day  and  forever 
more. 
The  gate  swung  open. 

20 

The  lesson  of  the  open  road,  as  Walt  saw  it  this  May 
morning,  was  one  of  reception  without  either  preference 
or  denial.  "  They  pass — I  also  pass — none  can  be  inter 
dicted."  The  road  had  a  cheerful  voice  and  a  man  might 
travel  on  it  to  the  end  of  his  days,  right  happily. 

Ah  ...  and  will  I?  he  wondered. 

"  Don't  venture  ...  if  you  leave  me  you  are  lost!  " 

He  cast  a  quick  glance  about  him.  No  one  in  sight. 
But  whose  voice,  then,  had  spoken? 


74  THE   ANSWERER 

"  I  am  already  prepared  ...  I  am  well-beaten  .  .  . 
safe." 

What  the  devil!  Did  the  road  from  Babylon  lead  to 
Damascus?  Was  this  cheerful  voice  of  the  road  with  its 
gay,  fresh  accent  and  its  easy  sentiment  the  summons  to 
repentance?  It  plainly  urged  him  to  stifle  his  inclination 
to  divagate,  to  strike  off  over  a  bit  of  untraveled  country, 
an  impulse  he  was  continually  obeying  for  a  purpose  he  was 
far  from  being  clear  about.  Those  who  wished  to  arrive 
anywhere  in  the  world  took  care  to  stick  to  the  well-beaten 
road. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  to  leave  you,"  he  said  aloud,  but  inde 
cisively. 

The  highways  of  existence  led  to  a  comfortable  and  pros 
perous  termination,  he  supposed.  They  proceeded  through 
one  of  the  many  descriptions  of  love  or  lust  by  way  of 
marriage  and  regularized  industry  to  the  goal  of  a  wife, 
a  habitation  and  accumulated  moneys;  but  chiefly  to  the 
goal  of  an  indestructible  self-satisfaction.  This  was  not  to 
say  it  was  always  easy  traveling — one  usually  encountered 
bad  going  and  large  numbers  found  the  highway  impass 
able.  The  one  supreme  advantage  accruing  to  each  road- 
taker  and  road-sticker  was  that  nobody  ever  prosecuted  him 
for  trespass.  He  might  be  balked  or  helped,  in  distress  or 
breakdown  be  left  unaided,  the  right  of  way  might  be 
denied  him  unless  and  until  he  asserted  and  forced  it;  but 
he  never  had  to  be  forgiven. 

Forgiveness  was  the  one  quality  that  man  collectively 
could  not  feel.  A  man  might  forgive  his  brother,  a  woman 
her  sister;  but  men  could  not  forgive  their  road-departing 


THE   ANSWERER  75 

brothers ;  women  were  incapable  of  extending  to  their  errant 
sisters  the  absolution  of  forgiveness. 

Then,  since  he  who  wandered  would  not  escape  a  sen 
tence  and  its  fulfilment,  how  strong  must  be  the  inner 
compulsion  upon  him  to  make  him  deliberately  abandon 
the  main- traveled  road! 

All  this,  he  assured  himself  in  a  reflective  interval,  was 
not  just  idle  theorizing  nor  fanciful  speculation.  Soon,  on 
the  last  day  of  this  Fifth  Month,  1840,  just  beginning, 
Walt  Whitman  would  be  twenty-one.  As  the  custom  of 
the  country  and  period  stood,  he  would  then  be  very  defi 
nitely  a  full-grown  man.  Physically  he  had  reached  his 
good  height  and  maturity  a  half-dozen  years  since.  Men 
tally  he  still  felt  very  much  unfledged,  though  conscious 
of  a  development  beyond  that  of  the  run  of  twenty-one- 
year-olds.  Emotionally  he  was  aware  of  being  specially  en 
dowed;  though  this  was  a  doubtful  advantage  and  one  too 
readily  operating  as  a  handicap.  Emotion,  in  the  fullest 
sense,  was  a  freight  of  quicksilver,  always  spilling  and  dart 
ing  in  a  thousand  directions,  forever  luring  the  carrier  off 
the  smooth,  recognized  road  and  into  ditches  and  past  no- 
trespass  signs. 

At  twenty-one  and  at  least  half  the  time  before  reaching 
twenty-one  most  men  of  his  generation  had  married,  were 
regularly  occupied  and  had  acquired  or  were  acquiring  a 
home.  He,  Walt  Whitman,  was  none  of  these  nor  with 
the  prospect  of  any  of  them. 

Not  that  this  irked  him.  It  was  not  that.  But  the  road, 
with  its  high  signification  of  one  accepted  route,  had  set 
him  thinking.  He  felt  (and  therefore  knew  with  the  only 


76  THE   ANSWERER 

sure  knowledge,  certitude)  that  he  must  give  the  problem 
fairest  consideration. 

The  first  milestone  on  the  road  was  marriage. 

Very  many  of  the  men  and  women  of  my  time,  reflected 
Walt,  look  upon  marriage  simply  as  a  means  to  an  end. 
I  think  they  are  right;  for  those  who  take  that  view,  un 
doubtedly  that  is  all  marriage  is  or  can  be.  Every  man 
and  woman  strives  for  self-satisfaction  and  for  most  men 
and  women  self-satisfaction  is  derived  from  a  tolerable  part 
nership,  cohabitation,  the  mutually  constructed  home,  chil 
dren,  the  owned  bit  of  ground  and  well-constructed  house, 
money  or  other  reasonable  bulwarks  securing  the  comfort 
of  old  age.  That  is  good,  sound,  healthful!  No  thing 
finer  than  this,  the  lived  Poem  of  average  lives! 

With  a  lesser  number,  marriage  is  an  end  in  itself.  They 
are  those  who  love,  like  the  boy  Joel.  .  .  .  Marriage,  so 
felt,  must  be  a  life-long  ecstacy,  an  unfolding  flower,  the 
renewed  sound  of  the  loveliest  music.  There  will  always 
be  a  freshness  about  it.  It  will  be  like  this  morning  for 
wonder  and  like  the  sound  of  the  ocean  for  praise.  All 
the  usual  offices  of  life  will  be  performed  and  all  the  ends 
so  valued  by  most  men  and  women  achieved — or  if  any 
are  neglected,  go  unarrived  at,  they  never  have  had  signifi 
cance  and  cannot  have  any. 

He  compared  the  two  journeyings  to  travel  by  land, 
always  comfortably  in  sight  of  dependable  landmarks,  and 
deep-sea  voyaging  where  the  shifting  stars,  the  shape  of 
the  earth,  the  service  of  the  winds  were  solely  to  be  relied 
on,  where  the  repose  of  the  soul  was  in  faith,  in  the  sub- 


THE   ANSWERER  77 

stance  of  things  hoped  for  and  the  evidence  of  things  not 
seen.  .  .  . 

And  in  the  full  flood  of  poetic  thought,  the  crest  of  the 
great  wave  of  emotion,  Walt  thought:  1  must  embark  on 
the  deep-sea  voyage!  Let  me  only  love!  and  let  me  but 
fix  upon  a  single  object  of  all  the  inexhaustible  and  pure 
feeling  I  know  to  exist  within  me!  Let  me  think,  believe, 
that  a  woman  waits  for  me  even  as  I  seek  unweariedly 
for  her.  .  .  .  Let  me  but  find  her,  losing  not  an  in 
stant.  .  .  . 

His  wistfulness  was  SQ.  great  upon  him  that  he  walked 
the  road  unevenly,  with  a  lagging  step  and  fingers  that 
closed  and  unclosed  and  a  mouth  not  steady.  He  felt  a 
sense  of  hunger  and  a  sense  of  pain. 

The  thought  of  Esther  Terry  came  upon  him  so  suddenly 
as  to  blur  things  before  his  eyes. 

21 

He  had  to  give  up,  and  sat  down  by  the  roadside,  feeling 
faint  and  dizzy. 

Why  had  he  not  thought  of  the  daughter  of  Freegift 
Terry  before?  He,  who  had  spent  that  whole  past  winter 
teaching  in  the  valley  where  was  her  home,  who  had  lived 
for  the  last  month  in  that  home?  How  explain  it,  this 
blindness?  or  how  account  for  it,  this  instant's  revelation? 

She  was  seventeen,  he,  twenty-one.  Her  face,  her  whole 
person,  reproduced  itself  before  him.  He  saw  the  blue 
irises  of  her  eyes,  each  flecked  with  golden-brown  so  that 
in  the  sunlight  they  lost  their  naive  and  timid  look  and 


78  THE  ANSWERER 

appeared  to  dance,  though  veiledly.  The  slight  rounded- 
ness  of  her  shoulders  appealed  for  pillowing  on  a  firm  young 
breast  and  the  smooth  shapeliness  of  her  forearm  was  made 
to  clasp  about  her  lover's  bared  throat.  And  all  that  coiled, 
saddle-colored  hair.  .  .  . 

He  checked  himself,  flushing. 

Of  her  face,  the  modeling  of  the  features,  he  remained 
uncertain;  but  she  had  the  frank  smile  that  had  made  him 
love  the  boy  Freegift,  youngest  of  her  three  brothers  but 
older  than  she.  She  had  no  sisters. 

She  was  more  intelligent  than  her  brothers,  or  no,  per 
haps  not  that,  but  she  had  seemed  more  perceptive  in  his 
relations  with  the  family;  it  had  been  easier  to  kindle  her 
interest  than  that  of  the  others  in  the  things  that  interested 
himself — themes  of  outdoors  and  themes  brought  up  by  the 
few  books  Walt  had  and  sometimes  read  from,  aloud.  She 
was  seventeen,  a  farmer's  daughter  not  living  in  any  of  the 
villages;  certainly  a  year  at  the  most  would  see  her  be 
trothed,  probably  married — settled  down,  beginning  to  travel 
the  well-beaten  road.  ...  It  would  make,  at  the  outset  of 
her  journey,  anyway,  a  difference  to  her  with  whom  she 
traveled. 

Here  and  now  Walt  felt  for  the  first  time  the  pitch  of 
compassion,  which  is  the  pity  that  understands  and,  sharing 
a  level  lifts  it  to  be  a  summit.  Compassion,  as  ever  with 
youth,  unaccompanied  by  resignation;  compassion,  with 
quiet  acceptance  or  rebellious  defiance,  unvaryingly  sublime. 
.  .  .  Compassion,  that  brings  a  man  and  a  woman  together 
and  then  sets  these  twain  forever  apart.  .  .  . 


THE   ANSWERER  79 

It  was  not  a  question  of  whether  he  could  love  her,  but 
only  of  whether  his  love  could  come  to  her. 

At  once  he  felt  the  supreme  hopelessness  of  making  her 
feel  his  love  and  the  vast  incertitude  of  whether  she  could 
love  him. 

An  abyss  opened.  Was  he  right?  Was  this  love?  Was 
he  merely  the  victim  of  his  own  emotional  nature.  Some 
thing,  perhaps  the  very  intensity  of  what  he  had  been  feel 
ing,  flung  him  down  from  an  immeasurable  height.  He  was 
left  stunned. 

After  a  while  he  rose,  stood  up  straight  and  looked  at 
the  broad  and  pleasant  road — vista — ahead  of  him.  It  led 
somewhere.  But  there  was  a  finer  thing,  the  joy,  the 
preciousness  of  making  the  journey  together. 

Tears  came  to  his  eyes;  the  immense  wistfulness,  the 
acute  shock,  the  devastating  sense  of  loneliness  felt  for  the 
first  time  he  could  ever  remember,  the  torture  of  uncer 
tainty  all  descended  on  him,  seemed  to  strike  at  his  heart 
and  brain.  And  yet  he  felt  not  an  impulse  to  return  to 
the  valley,  but  a  terror  lest  he  were  still  too  near  to  it. 
He  had  to  set  his  teeth,  as  he  went  on  eastward,  to  keep 
from  running — running,  running,  till  he  could  run  no  more. 

22 

Not  to  hail  another  wayfarer,  or  respond  to  salutation, 
was  to  stir  suspicion.  In  succession  Walt  fell  in  with  a 
hare-brained  youth  who  had  been  digging  in  different  spots 
on  Long  Island  in  search  of  buried  treasure;  a  negro  slave 
fugitive  from  South  Carolina  but  here  able  to  go  about 


8o  THE   ANSWERER 

openly;  a  Whig  politician  (middle-aged,  paunched  and  in 
cessantly  taking  snuff  so  that  he  sneezed  and  lost  the  im 
portant  words  in  anything  you  said) ;  and  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  bronzed  and  earringed,  who  was  heading  for 
Sag  Harbor  to  sign  for  a  whaling  cruise. 

Conversation  was  reduced  to  that  lowest  common  de 
nominator,  the  weather  and  crop  prospects,  but  after  a 
while  the  treasure-hunter  declared: 

"  Good  country,  this  Island;  yet  I'm  hankering  to  get 
back  to  Illynoise." 

"  You  from  Illinois?  "  asked  Walt,  interestedly. 

"Yep;  from  Springfield.  It's  the  capital.  Say,  you 
ought  to  see  otir  State!  We've  got  room!" 

"Achoo!  What  you  come  back  here  for,  then?  "  the 
Whig  inquired. 

"So  that's  what  a  sneeze  sounds  like!  I  ain't  heard 
one  in  years.  Out  West  it's  so  vast  you  can't  hardly  hear 
anything  unless  a  man's  making  a  political  speech." 

"  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too ! "  chanted  the  Whig  piously. 

"  That's  what  old  Abe  was  talking,  last  I  saw  of  him," 
mused  the  Illinoisan. 

"Who?"— from  Walt. 

"  Fellow  named  Lincoln — Abe  Lincoln.  Friend  o'  mine 
out  in  Springfield.  He  ain't  really  old,  not  more'n  about 
thirty.  We  just  call  him  that.  Fact  is,  Abe's  got  the 
oldest-lookin'  face  ever  was  seen  on  a  young  man.  It's  sort 
of  furrowed,  like  plowed-up  land.  We-1-11 " — in  a  thought 
ful  drawl — "there  was  a  girl  he  met  some  years  ago  back 
there  in  New  Salem,  and  she  took  and  died.  I  d'  know's 
it's  to  be  wondered  at  if  Abe  is  Abe.  ,  ,  ." 


THE   ANSWERER  81 

"What's  he  do;  I  mean,  what's  his  line?"  asked  the 
Whig,  recovering  from  fresh  attacks  of  snuff. 

"Abe's  a  lawyer;  he's  in  the  Illynoise  Legislature." 

The  politician  shook  his  head.  "  Never  heard  of  him," 
he  remarked  indifferently. 

Walt  thought  he  would  ask  the  Illinoisan  more  about  that 
other  fellow  later.  So  the  girl  had  died  ...  his  thought 
rested  for  a  moment  on  Esther  Terry,  but  only  lightly. 
The  sweat  he  had  been  in  a  half-hour  earlier  was  over;  and 
if  he  could  not  think  of  love  without  incertitude,  death  was 
a  thing  that  had  no  reality  at  present.  Surprisingly  the 
voice  of  the  earringed  young  sailor  rang  out: 

"  You  were  talking  about  your  vastnesses  out  West — 
you,  there.  Go  afloat  with  me  and  I'll  show  you  a  plain 
that  swamps  your  prairie!  " 

"  No  money  in  that,"  came  the  retort.  "  I'd  sooner 
look  for  pirate  treasure  on  Long  Island  than  for  a  needle 
in  a  haystack;  and  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack  than  for  a 
whale  in  the  ocean." 

"No  money,  eh?  That's  because  you've  never  seen  a 
payday  at  the  end  of  a  three-year  voyage  with  all  hands 
sharing  in  the  profits!  " 

All  this  while  the  fugitive  slave  had  kept  with  them  in 
pedestrian  silence.  Now,  however,  with  the  whites  of  his 
eyes  showing,  he  asked  the  sailor: 

"Is  mebbe  chance  for  black  man,  suh,  on  bo'd  ship- 
whaler?  " 

"  Why  not?  New  Bedford's  full  of  South  Sea  Islanders— 
Fijians  and  Erromangoans  and  the  devil  knows  who  not.  I 
was  up  there  to  get  a  berth;  stopped  o'ernight  at  the 


82  THE   ANSWERER 

Spouter  Inn  and  the  landlord  says:  '  I'll  have  to  sleep  ye 
with  another.  Ye  haven't  any  objections  to  sharing  a  har- 
pooneer's  blanket,  have  ye?  '  I  had  an  objection  to  shar 
ing  anybody's  blanket,  but  'twas  no  go;  and  may  I  never 
have  been  a  school  teacher  if  the  fellow  didn't  turn  out 
to  be  a  tattoed  cannibal!  " 

"  You  must  'a'  stood  about  as  much  chance  of  sleep  as 
a  stump-tailed  bull  in  fly  time/'  compared  Walt,  adding: 
"  But  you  say  you've  taught  school?  I've  been  doing  that. 
My  name's  Whitman — Walt  Whitman." 

"  Herman  Melville.     Where  do  you  belong  to?  " 

"  Here.    I  was  born  over  on  the  north  shore.    You?  " 

"  You're  a  Long  Islander,  I'm  a  Narrow  Islander.  Be 
hold,  sir,  a  native  of  the  insular  city  of  Manhattoes,  anno 
Domini  1819." 

"So!     We're  the  same  age." 

"  And  if  I'm  not  mistaken  " — the  sailor  was  regarding 
Walt  keenly — "  of  somewhat  the  same  temper." 

"  I  like — people.  Think  I  should  probably  have  been 
quite  fond  of  your  cannibal  companion." 

"  Why,  I  grew  to  be — not  too  close.  New  Bedford's 
a  sweet  place,  full  of  maples — long  avenues  of  green  and 
gold.  In  August  grand  horse-chestnuts  flower  forth,  like 
colossal  candelabra  all  lighted." 

"  Oh,  how  good  an  image!  "  Walt  exclaimed.  "  Do  you 
write?  You  must!  I've  a  yearning  to,  myself,  one  day." 

"  Aye,  I'll  be  having  some  yarns  and  some  thoughts  to 
put  on  paper,  later,"  was  the  reflective  answer.  "Have 
you  read  Emerson's  Nature?  " — with  a  swift  glance. 

"Haven't  I!     '  The  sun  shines    to-day   also/"   quoted 


THE   ANSWERER  83 

Walt.     "  There's  the  man  and  the  voice  for  this  country 
of  ours!  " 

"I  heard  Father  Taylor  preach  at  the  sailors'  Bethel 
in  Boston  and  talked  with  him  afterward.  He  says  Emer 
son  is  *  one  of  the  sweetest  souls  God  ever  made,  but  he 
knows  the  New  Testament  no  more  than  Balaam's  ass  knew 
grammar.'  I  remarked  that  Balaam's  ass  seems  to  have 
made  himself  understood,  spite  of  grammatical  deficiencies. 
There'll  be  those  who  will  understand  Emerson,  too." 

"Understand  him  and  love  him!  " 

"  A  man  named  Hawthorne  up  that  way  I  took  a  strong 
liking  to,"  continued  Melville.  "  Shy,  solitary;  bent,  he 
says,  upon  learning  how  to  write.  He  has  done  some 
stories  which  he  calls  Twice-Told  Tales,  very  delicate  but 
beautiful.  Says  himself  they  are  '  flowers  which  blossomed 
in  too  retired  a  shade.'  " 

"  That  sounds  like  Edgar  Poe." 

"  I  think  the  two  have  something  in  common,  though 
I  am  pretty  sure  they  do  not  know  each  other,  only  each 
other's  work.  Yet  it's  unlikely  Poe  has  read  anything  of 
Hawthorne's." 

"  What  do  you  make  of  Poe?  " 

"  Why,  not  much.  Too  unhealthy.  I've  seen  him  once 
or  twice  in  New  York.  It's  a  face  without  sunlight." 

"  Is  he  the  fiend  you  hear  about?  Or  just  a  being  cursed 
with  his  own  nature,  like  Burns?  Yet  there's  much  that's 
healthy  and  fine  in  Burns's  songs." 

"  Poe's  no  fiend,  but  it  may  be  there's  a  curse  upon  him. 
I  don't  share  your  taste  for  Burns.  Up  Boston  way  they're 
all  by  way  of  forming  a  new  group,  intellectually  speak- 


84  THE   ANSWERER 

ing.  Emerson  fathers  it,  spiritually — Emerson  and  Carlyle, 
whom  he  makes  so  much  of — but  stands  aloof  from  the 
others,  like  Bronson  Alcott,  who  are  all  for  practical  de 
tails — practical  or  impractical,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
which.  There  is  talk  of  a  convention  to  be  held  in  Bos 
ton  to  settle  something,  nobody  knows  just  what,  or  rather, 
no  half-dozen  agree.  Some  want  Abolition,  some  a  new 
religion,  others  to  confiscate  land.  Hawthorne  told  me 
that  even  Emerson  admitted  there  were  i  madmen,  mad 
women,  men  with  beards,  Bunkers,  Muggletonians,  Come- 
Outers,  Groaners,  Agrarians,  Seventh-Day  Baptists,  Quak 
ers,  Abolitionists,  Calvinists,  Unitarians,  and — philoso 
phers.'  " 

Walt  threw  back  his  head  in  hearty  laughter.  The 
man  from  Illinois,  overhearing  in  spite  of  the  Whig  poli 
tician's  nasal  interruptions  a  part  of  the  catalogue,  ob 
served: 

"  Out  West  we  say:  '  I'll  try  anything  once.'  " 

"  By  the  shade  of  John  Harvard!  "  retorted  the  sailor. 
"  That's  nothing.  Up  Boston  way  they're  in  the  mood 
to  try  everything  at  once!  " 

"  All  this  nonsense  about  Abolition  is  bad  for  the  coun 
try,"  declared  the  Whig  politician,  shortly. 

"  What's  good  for  humanity  can't  be  bad  for  any  coun 
try  "—from  Walt. 

"Humanity  be  hanged!  We've  got  to  think  of  the 
United  States." 

"  There  will  be  plenty  to  say  that  in  this  century  and 
the  next  century — in  every  century,"  Walt  answered.  "  But 


THE   ANSWERER  85 

America  means  opportunity.    Opportunity,  like  charity,  be 
gins  at  home;  shall  it  stop  there?  " 

The  Whig  said  sententiously:  "  Slavery  is  an  institu 
tion." 

"  So  was  King  George  III.    But  we  got  rid  of  him." 
"An   unhappy  parallel.     After   all,   when   you   destroy 
slavery  you  abolish  a  right  in  private  property.  .  .  ." 
The  two  argued  for  some  time,  Walt  affirming  finally: 
"  Tis  hopeless,  our  talking,  hopeless!      The  deeper  we 
get,  the  farther  we  go  apart.    Institutions  are  little  to  me; 
men  and  women  are  everything!   .  .  ." 

23 

Toward  noon  the  group  disintegrated,  the  Whig  stopping 
at  a  roadside  tavern,  the  treasure-hunter  striking  off  on 
a  road  south  with  the  plan  of  crossing  the  bay  that  after 
noon,  and  the  fugitive  negro  going  with  him  as  far  as 
the  old  manor  of  the  Nicolls,  where  freemen  of  his  race 
awaited  him.  Melville  and  Walt  made  a  meal  by  the 
wayside,  each  having  bread,  cheese  and  cider  with  him. 
Then  they  lay  stretched  in  the  shade  of  a  hollowed-out 
boundary  ditch  and  compared  enthusiasms. 

"  I  love  the  sea,"  explained  Melville.  "  It  cures  my  fits 
of  spleen.  There  are  times  when  I  hate  the  land  and 
everybody  on  shore.  And  when  I  go  to  sea,  I  take  good 
care  to  go  as  a  simple  sailor,  plumb  down  into  the  fore 
castle  and  right  aloft  to  the  royal  masthead.  There's  medi 
cine  in  being  thumped  and  ordered  about,  just  as  there's 
medicine  in  the  pure  air  you  breathe  on  the  fo'c's'le  head." 


86  THE   ANSWERER 

"  I'd  relish  that  life,"  conceded  Walt.  "  There's  medi 
cine  in  it  for  the  body,  as  you  say,  and  there  must  be, 
too,  for  the  soul.  For  you  and  me,  anyway."  He  hesi 
tated:  "  I  was  thinking  earlier  this  day  how  mystical  a 
deep-sea  passage  must  be."  Thus  he  guarded  his  full 
thought  by  not  revealing  its  application.  He  went  on: 
"  What  is  the  sea  but  a  field  for  pioneering?  The  day 
will  come  when  every  mile  of  land  will  have  been  explored 
and  either  settled  or  forgotten.  Where,  then,  shall  men 
pursue  the  life  of  adventure?  In  the  air,  perhaps;  in  the 
exciting  quests  of  the  laboratory  and  the  study,  no  doubt; 
on  the  sea,  as  always,  for  certain  sure." 

"  What  I  like  best  about  the  sea"— Melville  took  up  the 
analysis — "is:  It  abolishes  success." 

A  stranger  appearing  in  a  company  of  familiars  attracts 
instant  notice.  Walt  was  all  attention.  In  the  midst  of 
worthy  but  known  friends,  here  stood  a  new  idea!  Mel 
ville  smiled  and  proceeded  to  effect  an  introduction: 

"  Society  being  what  it  is,"  he  said,  "  a  man,  ashore,  is 
judged,  not  by  his  worth,  by  the  stuff  he  shows  to  be  in 
him,  but  by  his  success." 

"  But  he  must  be  worthy,  must  have  stuff  in  him,  to 
win  success,  mustn't  he?  " 

"Ah,  we  know  better  than  that!  " 

"  What  measures  success?  "  demanded  Walt. 

"  The  new,  arriving  gauge  seems  to  be  money,"  Melville 
said,  after  some  reflection,  "  at  least,  in  New  York.  In 
Boston,  perhaps  some  special  talent  or  some  preposterous 
idea."  He  smiled.  "  Throughout  the  South  it  is  family; 
but  family  and  wealth  are  there  synonymous.  Of  course 


THE   ANSWERER  87 

we  have,  except  for  the  South,  abolished  in  this  country 
what  you  might  call  hereditary  success — men  and  women 
born  to  the  purple.  Success  in  all  ages  and  among  all 
men  from  the  beginning  of  the  race  has  been  accredited 
to  the  man  who  acquired  a  beautiful  wife.  There  has 
never,  I  suppose,  been  a  time  when  the  male  who  had  for 
his  very  own  a  lovely  woman  did  not  excite  the  envy  of  all 
other  men — and  the  excitation  of  envy  is  the  proof  of  a 
man's  success.  Isn't  it?  "  He  thrust  the  question  home. 

"  I  may  envy  another  his  vast  though  tragic  experience 
of  life.  I  may  envy  a  man  his  happiness,  though  he  has 
nothing  else  and  has  never  had  anything  else,"  Walt  remon 
strated. 

"  But  still — you  are  envious.  The  thing  you  envy  is 
a  form  of  success,"  insisted  Melville. 

"  At  sea,  as  on  a  frontier,  the  thing  called  '  success '  sim 
ply  does  not  exist,"  continued  the  sailor.  "  It  is  always 
and  only  a  matter  of  a  man's  stuff.  Is  the  stuff  in  him? 
Can  he  do  his  work  properly?  If  so,  all  right,  whatever 
the  outcome.  But  if  not,  all  wrong.  You  see?  He  cannot 
*  succeed.'  The  thought  of  envying  him  would  never  arise. 
There  is  no  money  to  make — I  am  speaking  of  the  sailor — 
and  there  is  no  '  career.'  There  is  not  even  the  deadly  illu 
sion  that  shadows  the  performance  of  a  man  on  the  land. 
I  mean  the  illusion  that  his  '  success '  was  achieved  wholly 
or  mainly  by  his  own  qualities  and  exertions." 

"You're  somewhat  of  a  fatalist,"  commented  Walt,  his 
head  on  one  side,  his  eyes  lowered.  And  he  went  on,  in 
the  manner  of  calm  negligence:  "  Then  you  make  no  ex 
ception  in  favor  of  success  in  love?  " 


88  THE   ANSWERER 

The  sailor  frowned;  said:  "I  know  nothing  about  that." 
His  "  that "  had  a  ring  of  something  so  close  to  envy  as 
made  Walt  smile,  surmise  and  wonder  if  here  were  not  a 
case  for  pity.  .  .  .  Melville  was  saying,  with  a  touch  of 
harshness : 

"  The  acquisition — exclusive  possession — of  a  lovely 
woman,  which  I  spoke  of  as  one  of  the  incitements  to  envy, 
has  not  necessarily  anything  to  do  with  love.  I  suppose 
love  is  the  one  thing  in  the  world  which  cannot  be  recog 
nized  from  outside."  But  this  was  more  question  than 
assertion. 

"Oh  ...  others  can  recognize  it."  And  Walt  thought 
again  of  Jenny  and  Joel.  "  Fact  is,  I  suspect  you've  got 
the  truth  just  turned  inside  out;  and  that  others  may  rec 
ognize  it  first.  The  hardest  thing  must  be  for  the  lover 
to  know  when  he  or  she  loves.  Very  often,  anyway!  We 
aren't  trained  to  look  in  upon  ourselves,  not  exactly;  isn't 
that  true?  " 

"  You  and  I  are  both  in-lookers,  of  course."  Melville 
had  an  air  of  advancing  a  piece  on  a  chessboard. 

"  We  should  know  when  we  love,  you  mean?  I  want 
to  get  at  the  process.  Is  an  ideal  first  formed  and  is  some 
one  person  then  made  to  enclose  it,  or  arrayed  in  it,  or  il 
lumined  by  it  as  by  a  powerful  light  projected  upon  her 
or  him?  Give  me  your  idea." 

Struck  by  a  note  in  Walt's  voice,  the  sailor  asked: 

"  You  are  not  inquiring  for  This  is  just  a  theme 

adrift  between  us?  a  speculation  loose  and  running  free? 
There's  no  bowline  in  the  bight  and  t'other  end  of  our 


THE   ANSWERER  89 

talk,  if  we  ever  reach  it,  isn't  clove-hitched  to  your  thought, 
your  meditated  action?  " 

"What  matter?"  Walt  tried  to  speak  carelessly,  but 
found  he  couldn't. 

"  Ah,  answer  enough,"  exclaimed  the  sailor.  "  Let  me 
tell  you  what  I  think.  It  is  this:  Love  may  sometimes 
be  arrived  at;  not  always.  But  there  is  a  stage,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  beyond  which  the  affair  passes  out  of  our 
hands ;  a  change  comes  in  the  personality ;  a  stage  of  growth 
has  been  reached." 

This  was  to  Walt  a  new  and  wonderful  insight;  inwardly 
he  quivered  with  excitement  and  the  buoyancy  of  his  voice 
was  lost;  he  spoke  with  a  sort  of  difficulty  like  a  man 
chagrined  for  words: 

"  I  wonder  if  one's  real,  inner  Self  doesn't  suffer  a  loss 
of  some  kind?  I  wonder  if,  in  some  moments,  at  least,  a 
man  who  loves  doesn't  feel  that  some  part  of  his  Self  has 
irrecoverably  gone  from  him?  If  he  hasn't  a  sense  of  a 
sort  of  violation  of  the  Self  strangely  like  a  violation  of 
the  body?  ...  I  wonder!  " 

"  He  is  no  longer  wholly  himself?  I  mean:  His  Self 
is  not  any  more  entirely,  uniquely  his  own?  He  is  partly 
that  other  one  and  that  other  one  is  partly  him?  Yes,  I 
think  that  is  how  it  strikes  home.  That  is  how  it  would 
have  to  strike  home  to  you  and  me,  to  all  the  in-lookers, 
to  the  empiricists,  to  the  transcendentalists,  to  the  mystics 
among  mankind.  Yes,  that  would  have  to  be  true,"  agreed 
Melville. 

"How  finely  suggestive  you  are!     And  that  other  ex- 


go  THE   ANSWERER 

pression  of  yours/'  Walt  resumed,  "  about  a  stage  of  growth 
having  been  reached.  That  would  be  a  change  in  the  mind, 
in  the  whole  emotional  structure  like  the  change  of  the 
body  in  adolescence.  Don't  you  guess  so?  A  man's  emo 
tions  could  never  be  the  same  any  more;  they  would  have 
changed  pitch  for  good  like  the  voice  of  the  growing  boy. 
He  would  think  about  all  things  differently.  And  if  his 
love  were  in  any  way  frustrated?  met  disappointment? 
what  then?  oh,  what  then?  " 

A  cry  escaped  Melville,  but  an  instant  later  he  was 
laughing  lightly  and  saying: 

"  What  then,  O  my  friend  Whitman?  What  then?  Why 
— religion,  or  lust,  or  the  muddy  river,  or  the  ruthless  reach 
for  money,  or  a  bullet  in  the  breast  in  battle,  or  the  ex 
treme  unction  of  the  all-merciful  sea!  What  then?  What 
then?  What  then?  Oh,  my  God  .  .  .  what  .  .  .  then?  " 

And  with  a  gesture  which  conveyed  both  farewell  and  a 
cutting  adrift,  the  sailor  strode  ahead  on  the  road  alone. 

24 

Thus  passes  the  light  of  the  world!  thought  Walt,  and 
he  lay  in  the  ditch,  as  if  numbed,  feeling  that  the  sun  must 
be  blackened  in  the  sky  and  a  night  pitch-dark,  without 
stars,  drop  all  about  him.  All  that  sense  of  paralyzed  ex 
pectancy  which  one  might  have  been  expected  to  feel 
at  the  vigil  on  the  beach — which  some  had  felt — seemed 
to  descend  full  upon  him,  lying  here,  abandoned  to  the 
exaltation  of  an  introspective  hope  and  the  terror  of  an 
uncertified  and  unassessable  self-knowledge.  For  he  was 
again  alone,  and  not  alone.  The  thought  of  Esther  Terry 


THE   ANSWERER  9r 

was  with  him  and  with  such  overpowering  violence  as  to. 
make  him  mentally  and  bodily  helpless.  Waves  of  un 
merciful  but  undefined  feeling  tossed  him  about,  as  if  his 
mind  were  a  millrace.  Yet  something  in  him  struggled 
against  the  mad  currents,  some  doubt,  a  derelict  of  reason 
and  ordinary  perception,  not  yet  wholly  submerged  or 
swept  on  to  limbo. 

When  he  could  move  he  got  up  stiffly  and  began  to 
travel  along  the  road.  He  walked  mechanically,  not  yet 
able  to  think.  He  had  gone  some  distance  before  he  per 
ceived  himself  to  be  going — back. 

25 

All  at  once  the  splendor  of  the  day,  the  downpouring 
sunshine,  the  fresh-smelling  fields  and  even  the  effect  of 
little  white  clouds  floating  carelessly  in  the  sky  got  into 
his  blood.  What  did  anything  matter?  He  was  young, 
alive! 

There  was  no  such  thing  as  love  in  a  sense  profoundly 
and  psychically  transforming.  There  were  only  slight  phys 
iological  changes,  excitations,  or  mere  disturbances.  .  .  . 

You  young  animal,  Walt! — so  the  vagabond  addresses 
himself  with  laughing  exuberance — you  young  animal! 
Well  .  .  .  what  could  be  healthier,  more  satisfying,  than 
to  be  a  young  animal?  What  could  be  better  than  to 
cultivate  the  satisfaction  and  aplomb  of  animals?  What 
do  you  know,  lad?  You  know  what  you  feel.  .  .  . 

Remember  these  winters  when,  with  chums,  you've  gone 
out  on  the  frozen  plain  of  the  Great  South  Bay  with  hand- 
sled,  ax  and  eel-spear?  What  frosty,  warming  work  to 


92  THE   ANSWERER 

chop  holes  in  the  ice!  And  in  no  time  the  baskets  were 
full  of  fat,  sweet,  white-meated  fellows.  Or  perhaps  it  was 
summer  and  you  hunted  the  beach  high  and  low  to  find  the 
two  or  three  clustered  eggs  which  the  sun  was  to  hatch 
for  the  sea-gull  that  laid  them.  Or  you  sailed  in  a  boat, 
looping  lazily  about  Shelter  Island,  putting  in  at  Fort  Pond 
Bay  and  tramping  gaily  to  Montauk,  there  to  lie  prone  on 
Turtle  Hill  and  watch  the  ceaseless  roll  of  the  Atlantic. 
The  bluefishers  and  sea-bass  takers,  the  harsh,  silent  men 
herding  cattle  on  Montauk,  the  mute  and  scornful  full- 
bloods  left  of  the  Indian  tribe  or  the  loose-lipped  half- 
breeds — these  were  your  company  and  with  them  you  prac 
tised  fraternity,  learning  much  with  little  said.  Baymen, 
farmers,  pilots,  the  charcoal-burners  of  the  mid-Island  pine 
barrens;  the  bare  feet  and  rolled-up  trousers,  the  clam- 
digging,  hauling  down  the  creek  with  the  boat,  loading  the 
hay-boat,  chowder-parties  on  the  shore  and  straw-rides  to 
inland  picnics,  house-raisings  and  the  housewifely  arts  of 
the  good-hearted  farmers'  wives;  the  smell  of  pine  and 
the  perfume  of  sedge-meadows.  .  .  .  And  with  all  this  rich, 
full  stream  of  existence,  you  have  fancied  at  moments  that 
life  held  something  else?  What  nonsense!  What  more 
could  life  hold  than  health  and  sleep  and  fun  and  a  perfect 
savor? 

It  was  absurd  that  he  should  be  taking  the  road  back. 

He  forced  himself  to  stop  walking  and  stood  for  a  few 
minutes  inhaling  deeply  and  deliberately.  The  utter  ir 
rationality  of  his  nature  had  never  so  impressed  him  before. 
What  was  he  doing?  and  toward  what  tending? 

"A  man  ought  to  reason."  he  argued  out  loud. 


THE   ANSWERER  93 

Reasoning  always  started  with  a  question  or  with  an 
assertion.  One  ought  to  be  able  to  ask  himself  a  question, 
anyhow!  Answering  it  was  a  separate  problem.  Or  .  .  . 
be  able  to  assert  something  or  other. 

"  Do  I  love  her?  "  Uttering  the  words  aloud  ought  to 
help  in  vividness,  in  reality.  For  curiously  the  moment  was 
unreal.  "  Do  I  love  her?  " 

Too  difficult!     He  tried  again,  asking  impersonally: 

"  Am  I  in  love?  " 

There  seemed  no  way  of  answering  that,  either.  So  he 
inquired: 

"  Do  I  know  what  love  is?  "    To  that,  yes! 

"  Have  I  ever  experienced  it?  " 

No.  .  .  .  Then  it  is  impossible  that  I  can  be  in  love, 
or  that  I  love  Esther  Terry. 

Such  a  triumph  of  reasoning  as  that  ought  to  bring 
complete  and  instant  relief,  security,  mental  ease.  He  could 
not  say  he  felt  anything  of  the  sort.  Reasoning  had  never 
seemed  so  wholly  contemptible  before.  The  age  of  reason! 
Some  time  in  the  last  century,  hadn't  it  been? 

26 

When  he  arrived  back  at  Babylon  it  was  near  to  sun 
down  and  Walt  went  to  the  house  where  Selah  Mulford 
lived  with  his  mother,  a  widow,  for  supper  and  a  bed. 

The  house  was  greatly  lit.  A  negro  servant  opened  the 
doora  and  Walt  asked: 

"  Are  you  giving  .a  party,  Ebenezer?  " 

Ebenezer  replied  that  a  guest,  a  lady,  was  expected  by 
the  evening  stage  from  west. 


94  THE  ANSWERER 

"It  is  Miss  Fuller,  Margaret  Fuller,"  explained  Selah 
Mulford  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  bedrooms.  "  Mother 
knows  her.  She  is  on  her  way  from  New  York  to  Boston 
and  goes  to-morrow  by  stage  to  Greenport,  thence  by  the 
boat.  I  believe  she  is  to  meet  Major  Jack  Downing  or 
Mrs.  Sigourney  or  some  other  writer  at  Greenport.  You 
know  all  these  people,  I  believe;  for  my  part,  I  can't  tell 
one  from  t'other." 

He  spoke  with  a  careless  glibness  and  had  so  much  the 
air  of  youth  in  a  burning  preoccupation  of  its  own  that 
Walt  wondered  what  had  come  over  him  since  morning. 
There  was  no  chance  to  inquire.  Sounds  from  downstairs 
proved  the  guest's  arrival  and  Mrs.  Mulford  sent  Ebenezer 
to  them  with  a  message  that  dinner  was  ready. 

The  four  of  them  were  assembled  in  the  parlor-drawing 
room  long  enough  for  an  introduction  and  a  few  pre 
liminary  remarks.  Mrs.  Mulford,  in  lavender  silk,  smiled 
comfortably  at  Walt.  She  was  a  woman  of  a  placidity 
so  astonishing  that  one  scarcely  understood  the  snowy 
whiteness  of  her  hair  which  might  have  been  powdered, 
seen  above  her  face  of  complete  calm,  with  not  a  single 
noticeable  wrinkle.  She  had  been  a  Schermerhorn  from 
Brooklyn  and  her  mother  had  been  a  Van  Velsor,  of  the 
same  family  as  Walt's  mother,  but  the  relationship  was 
too  distant  for  ciphering  out. 

Margaret  Fuller,  the  writer  and  intellectual,  one  of  this 
new  breed  of  women  who  seemed  to  derive  from  the  works 
of  Goethe  or  to  have  seeded  from  the  Nature  of  Jean 
Jacques  Rousseau,  presented  the  greatest  possible  contrast 
to  her  hostess.  She  was  even  physically  unattractive — 


THE   ANSWERER  95 

"homely,"  Walt  admitted  to  himself,  in  the  everyday  ex 
pression — but  there  was  a  touch  of  sensuousness  about  her, 
visible  in  the  full  lips  and  the  mouth's  mobility.  The  eyes 
were  direct  and  clear  but  sparkled  only  at  the  perception 
of  some  thought,  her  own  or  another's,  which  struck  her 
as  having  facets  and  fires  of  abstract  beauty.  She  was 
emotional,  too,  but  her  emotions  responded,  or  were  allowed 
to  respond,  to  ideas  alone.  Above  all,  she  talked  briskly, 
delightfully  and  with  a  varying  brilliance,  as  if  her  mind 
were  proof  against  physical  fatigue. 

"  Oh,"  she  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Mulford,  "  we  are  going 
to  try  some  sort  of  experiment,  at  Concord  or  elsewhere. 
If  only  Emerson  will  join!  I  must  convert  him — impress 
him  with  his  own  responsibility.  Men  do  tend  to  shun 
responsibility,  don't  they,  dear  Anneke?  They  are  with 
their  ideas  as  with  their  offspring;  it  is  enough  that  they 
have  begotten  them — thereafter  others  must  look  to  the 
rearing  and  nurture!  I  shall  tell  Emerson  quite  frankly 
that  he  must  legitimatize  his  child." 

Mrs.  Mulford  tried  to  look  shocked  but  her  natural 
placidity  would  not  let  her. 

"  Bronson  Alcott  worships  Emerson  and  Emerson  has 
been  the  soul  of  kindness  to  Mr.  Alcott  but  somehow  they 
never  quite  come  into  contact  with  each  other.  While 
Alcott  talks,  Emerson  obviously  goes  on  thinking  about 
something  else;  in  fact,  he  said  one  day  to  Alcott:  '  Bron 
son,  when  you  are  talking,  Plato  becomes  a  reality  instead 
of  remaining  just  a  beautiful  dream!  '  And  it  is  humiliat 
ing  to  admit  it,  Anneke,  but  my  own  effort  to  win  Emer 
son's  intimacy  has  so  far  failed.  I  can  make  him  laugh— 


96  THE   ANSWERER 

indeed,  he  complained  to  Mrs.  Alcott  that  I  made  him  laugh 
too  much! — but  despite  my  most  artful  leadings  and  pauses 
the  man  seemed  simply  to  freeze  into  silence,  utter  dumb 
ness,  with  every  opportunity  I  gave  him  to  speak.  There 
is  a  good  deal  that  is  other-worldly  about  him." 

"Well,  but  Emerson's  a  poet,"  protested  Walt. 

"  That's  only  one  aspect."  Miss  Fuller  turned  her  eyes, 
with  their  intellectual  gleam,  on  the  young  man. 

"No!  I  beg  your  pardon — the  poet  includes  everything 
else,"  Walt  answered.  "  When  you  say  a  man's  a  poet 
you  perhaps  deprive  him  of  some  usual  human  traits,  quali 
ties,  endowments ;  and  in  the  same  breath,  by  the  same  word, 
you  acknowledge  the  existence  in  him  of  superior  traits, 
superior  endowments.  It  is  not  a  question  of  penning 
verses." 

"  I  see  " — she  spoke  thoughtfully  and  with  the  momen 
tary  light  of  intellectual  pleasure  in  her  eyes,  she  had  a 
handsome  look.  "  It  is  to  put  the  poet  in  a  class  with 
prophets,  seers,  those  whom  the  ancients  considered  in 
spired  by  the  gods." 

"  They  were  inspired  by  their  fellow  men." 

"  You  mean—?  " 

"They  absorbed  all  and  gave  it  back  again,  purified; 
they  turned  the  water  into  wine." 

"  They  were  inspired  by  Nature,  like  Rousseau?  "  sug 
gested  Margaret  Fuller. 

"  Rousseau's  Nature  was  his  own  body,  his  healthy  ani 
malism,"  Walt  declared. 

"  I  don't  believe  Emerson  is  aware  he  has  a  body,"  was 
her  pensive  remark,  on  this. 


THE   ANSWERER  97 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Margaret,  and  Mr.  Whitman!  "  Mrs.  Mul- 
ford  murmured.  "  You  young  people  do  discuss  such  sub 
jects  nowadays!  " 

There  was  a  laugh.  Walt  noticed  that  Selah  Mulford 
joined  in  it  tardily.  The  young  man  was  crumbling  a 
piece  of  bread.  What  had  happened  to  him  since  the 
morning? 

"  It's  quite  unfathomable  how  such  a  mind  as  Emerson's 
works."  Miss  Fuller  had  returned  to  the  disembodied 
spirit  and  was  considering  the  processes  of  intellectual 
creation.  "  Apparently  he  is  not  able  to  compose  except 
when  rambling  in  the  woods  and  pastures.  He  says  he 
does  not  cast  about  for  thoughts,  nor  wait  for  them.  They 
come.  In  the  intervals  of  their  coming,  his  senses  are 
busy  with  the  weather  or  the  landscape,  an  anemone  or  a 
rhodora,  a  chipmunk,  or  the  sheen  of  ice  on  the  Walden 
pond.  Each  day  he  sets  down  in  his  journal  certain 
thoughts.  Some  may  have  occurred  that  day,  some  came 
first  a  few  days  ago  but  have  been  perfecting  themselves 
in  the  recesses  of  his  mind.  His  writing  on  any  subject 
is  a  sifting  from  his  journal  entries — matched  pearls  loosely 
strung." 

"  And  he  never  composes  deliberately? "  asked  Walt, 
greatly  impressed. 

"  I'm  sure  he  couldn't,"  said  Margaret  Fuller,  with  de 
cision.  "  He  is  incapable  of  conscious  effort  or  conscious 
concentration  and  that  is  where  he  differs  from  everybody 
else  I  have  ever  heard  of  or  read  about.  His  sermons  are 
made  (you  can't  say  '  written  ')  in  the  same  fashion.  But 
his  voice!  Warm,  rich,  wonderful!  And  his  manner,  his 


98  THE   ANSWERER 

very  presence,  has  something  serenely  shining  about  it." 
Walt  thrilled.  Selah  Mulfora  quoted  suddenly  a  line, 
the  last,  of  the  P<aradiso — to-night  he  felt  himself  very 
much  a  descendant  of  the  Marchesi  Brignole.  Miss  Fuller, 
evidently  at  home  in  Italian,  gave  an  exclamation  of  dis 
may  at  the  sound  of  the  words. 

"There!  "  she  said  as  she  and  Mrs.  Mulford  left  the 
room,  "what  a  reminder  of  the  great  man's  limitations! 
Emerson  is  unable  to  see  anything  whatsoever  in  Dante, 
he  says,  that  he  cannot  find  also  in  Zerah  Colburn!  .  .  . 
But  yet  a  poet,  Mr.  Whitman!  "  She  paused  in  the  door 
way.  "  Don't  be  too  long  apart  from  us.  I  like  your 
talk." 

i 

Selah  Mulford  faced  Walt,  and  told  him: 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  Sarah  Furrier.  I  asked  to-day,  and 
she — consented." 

"    .  .  Your  mother?  " 

"Will  never  know.  Nor  will  any  one  else.  We  shall 
be  wed  at  once.  If,  some  months  from  now  .  .  .  who  will 
find  anything  to  say;  tell  me?  Simply,  there  will  be  an 
other  .  .  .  Mulford.  My  mother  took  my  announcement 
with  a  good  grace." 

The  boy  had  slumped  down  in  his  chair  at  the  table; 
his  chin  rested  on  his  breast.  With  a  movement  Walt 
flung  himself  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  one  hand  encircling 
Selah 's  neck.  Beneath  the  palm  of  that  hand  he  could  feel 
an  artery  throbbing.  He  said  at  length: 

"You  and  she  talked  freely?  " 


THE   ANSWERER  99 

"  Walt,  there  can  be  nothing  we  did  not  tell  each  other ! 
It  was  a  sort  of  nakedness,  without  shame,  and  we  both 
knew  and  said  that  neither  of  us  ever  had  known  anything 
like  it.  I  think  the  holy  of  holies  must  exist  somewhere 
in  the  mind,  and  but  one  person  is  admitted  to  it  in  the 
longest  lifetime.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with — the  other 
thing,  or  any  other  thing!  I  do  not  believe  it  has  any 
thing  to  do  with  marriage,"  concluded  Selah  Mulford,  in 
vincibly. 

"  But  you  contemplate  marriage,"  Walt  said,  as  if  ob 
jecting.  "  You  two  have  had  this — I  think  '  communion ' 
is  the  one  word,  don't  you? — and  the  freshness  and  the 
wonder  of  that  will  last,  as  it  seems  to  you,  well,  forever! 
Marriage  has  no  bearing;  your  own  words!  Consider  and 
tell  me:  What  is  it  you  do?  You  make  a  sacrifice,  don't 
you?  for  her  sake — and  it  cannot  be  completely  successful. 
You  put  her  in  your  debt  with  an  act  she  can  never 
repay  (how  can  she  repay;  what  can  be  a  true  equiva 
lent?).  Oh,  I  greatly  fear  you  will  both  of  you  live  to 
regret  it!" 

Selah  Mulford  twisted  his  head  about  and  looked  upward 
into  Walt's  face.  His  first  fierce  intention  was  softened  by 
what  he  saw  there  and  when  he  spoke  it  was  to  say,  quite 
gently: 

"  Man,  you  don't  understand.    We  love  each  other." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that?  And  how?  Do  you  know  how 
most  folk  would  analyze  this?  They  would  say  it  was  an 
extreme  oscillation — swoop  of  the  pendulum  in  the  opposite 
direction — a  rebound  from  your  experience  with  Temper 
ance  Wines.  .  .  .  Ah,  you  may  look  at  me  as  hardly  as 


ioo  THE   ANSWERER 

you  like,  Selah.  Maybe  I'm  the  Tempter  himself.  But 
you  can't  get  rid  of  the  Devil  by  consigning  him  to  hell; 
he  lives  there." 

A  strong  bitterness  flavored  Walt's  concluding  words;  he 
seemed  to  himself  to  be  tasting  gall.  Again  that  fleeting 
sense  of  personal  guilt  assailed  him,  the  precise  feeling  that 
had  overtaken  him  on  hearing  Joel  Skidmore's  ecstatic  con 
fession.  He  put  it  aside,  with  an  effort,  and  a  kind  of  dizzi 
ness  took  its  place;  the  inner  lives  and  emotional  expe 
riences  of  Joel  and  Selah  and  Sarah  Furrier  and  Herman 
Melville  confused  themselves  with  his  own  emotions  that 
day  and  with  the  persistently  returning  vision  of  Esther 
Terry.  Stronger  than  all  this  turmoil  was  a  knife-like  pang 
of  sharpest  envy;  he  recalled  with  vain  contrition  Melville's 
words  about  envy;  he  fought  against  the  admission,  even 
to  himself,  that  in  thinking  of  Joel  and  listening  to  Selah 
he,  Walt  Whitman,  was  envying  a  form  of  success — the 
greatest,  the  most  incontestable,  the  one  (to  him)  as  yet 
unknown. 

And  as  if  his  exalted  happiness  had  conferred  on  him 
some  special  insight  Selah  Mulford,  studying  the  face  of 
Walt,  futile  in  the  assumed  role  of  Tempter,  was  observing 
good-humoredly: 

"  You  know  you  haven't  told  me  what  brought  you  back 
to-night.  What  on  earth  did,  anyway?  Why  aren't  you  a 
day's  journey  Montaukward?  " 

Walt  murmured:  "  Oh,  didn't  I  tell  you?  Well,  I— I 
changed  my  mind.  Besides,  there's  twenty  dollars  wait 
ing  for  me  at  Freegift  Terry's."  The  reference  to  her 


THE   ANSWERER  101 

father's  home  affected  him  as  though  he, bad  madp'a'slip 
of  the  tongue.  "  Come,  we  must  join  Miss  Fuller  and 
your  mother,"  he  finished  hurriedly. 

"  Yes,  certainly."  But  Selah  Mulford  continued  to  stare 
at  his  comrade  with  a  look  of  speculative  surprise. 

"  What  have  you  men  been  talking  about?  "  Margaret 
Fuller  demanded.  "  Do  you  know,  Anneke,"  turning  to 
Mrs.  Mulford,  "  I  love  better  than  almost  anything  hear 
ing  men  talk  among  themselves.  I  always  hate  leaving 
them  after  dinner  and  I  always  long  to  hide  behind  cur 
tains  and  eavesdrop." 

Mrs.  Mulford  made  another  effort  to  appear  scandalized 
but  the  pleasant  gravure  of  her  face  succeeded  only  in 
altering  to  a  vague  and  momentary  vacancy,  as  if  she  had 
mislaid  an  emotion  without  which  she  would  not  appear 
quite  ladylike. 

Selah  laughed,  a  little  too  unforcedly. 

"We-  have  been  discussing  love." 

"  Oh,  how  indelicate  you  are,  Selah."  But  his  mother 
spoke  contentedly. 

"  You  don't  sound  shocked,"  he  answered  good-humoredly. 
Mrs.  Mulford  sighed.  If  she  could  neither  look  shocked 
nor  sound  shocked,  well,  she  had  done  her  best  for  the 
conventionalities . 

"I  think  I  am  disappointed,"  declared  Margaret  Fuller, 
with  an  effect  of  consideration.  "  Women  talk  so  much 
about  love.  I  had  hoped  for  some  masculine  topic.  Like 
abolition." 

"  The  peculiar  thing  about  abolition  as  a  topic  of  talk," 


id?,  THE   ANSWERER 

Wait  told  fo(ir,  drawlingly,  "is:  It  abolishes  friendships,  de 
cency  in  debate,  and  everything,  in  fact,  except  human 
slavery." 

"That  is  witty.  You  must  tell  me  how  you  stand — 
you  are  extreme  anti-slavery?  yes — and  then  we  can  talk 
of  something  else.  You  might  tell  me  what  you  were  say 
ing  about — love.  Was  it  all  in  the  magnificent  vein  of 
Selah's  line  from  Dante?  "  And  she  quoted  again: 


' L'amor  che  muove  il  sole  e  I'altre  stelle  .  .  / 

"  Was  it  the  love  which  swings  the  sun  and  stars?  " 

"  How  that  phrase  frees  the  spirit!  "  The  clear  beam 
from  Walt's  eyes  made  a  completer  answer  than  his  com 
ment.  Miss  Fuller  shook  her  head;  said  with  an  intellectual 
pounce: 

"Ah,  Mr.  Whitman!  You  talk  of  a  phrase  freeing  the 
spirit?  What  are  phrases?  We  who  use  them  know  how 
to  depise  them,  I  fancy." 

Walt  gazed  at  her  serenely. 

"You  despise  too  much,  ma'm,"  he  told  her.  "Take 
care!  'Tis  a  habit  grows  on  one  fast.  And  no  one  can 
afford  to  feel  contempt,  not  ever,  I  guess." 

One  saw  the  feminine  intellect  accoutring  itself.  "  Why, 
bless  the  man!  what  a  gospel.  Perhaps  '  despise  '  is  not  the 
word;  but  surely  you'll  allow  all  civilization,  all  progress 
to  consist  in  more  or  less  continuous  discriminations;  we 
are  aways  rejecting  something  or  other  in  favor  of  something 
else." 

"  I  feel  it  is  wrong,"  he  withstood  her. 


THE   ANSWERER  103 

"  You  would  be  totally  unsophisticated?  " 

"No,  I  would  be  perfectly  sophisticated.  Perfect  so 
phistication  accepts  everything.  Those  who  are  always  re 
jecting,  ignoring,  passing  by  and  discarding  are  those  who 
have  not  fully — how  put  it?  have  not  fully — arrived.  They 
lack  the  last  poise,  their  position,  mentally,  intellectually 
and  emotionally  is  still  precarious  and  they  know  it.  So 
they  balance  themselves  with  dizzy  shrugs  and  tread  the 
tightrope  of  disdain — disdain  of  this  or  that  thing  which 
is  humble  and  lowly  and  human.  They  are  snobs?  But 
to  call  them  that  is  to  take  our  place,  for  the  moment  at 
least,  with  them.  They  are  imperfectly  sophisticated.  .  .  . 
Perfect  sophistication  is  of  no  use  except  to  enable  us  to 
recapture  the  freshness,  the  simplicity,  the  beauty  of  the 
world.  Can  you  separate  its  beauty  from  a  rose?  No. 
The  real  beauty  of  the  world  is  equally  inseparable  from 
the  total  world — a  world  which  contains  both  roses  and 
skunk  cabbages.  You  cannot  pick  the  rose  alone  and  say: 
*  Here  is  the  beauty  of  the  world.'  You  must  enlarge  your 
notion,  concept,  of  beauty  to  include  the  skunk  cabbage 
also." 

"  But  it  is  a  young  genius!  "  exclaimed  Margaret  Fuller, 
half-aloud  and  as  if  she  were  phrasing  the  comment  in 
German.  "  Es  ist  ja  die  Weltanschauung."  And  she  began 
to  urge  Walt  to  visit  Boston  and  Concord,  meet  Emerson 
"  and  all  the  others,"  exchange  ideas.  To  such  suggestions 
and  to  her  urgings  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  You  have  your  disdain  for  phrases ;  I  have  my  distrust 
of  ideas,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  Oh,  I  am  not  perfectly  so- 


104  THE   ANSWERER 

phisticated,  any  more  than  the  rest.  There  are  still  plenty 
of  ideas — some  seem  my  own  but  probably  are  not,  some 
come  from  others — of  which  I  am  badly  scared." 

"Tell  me  a  few." 

He  gave  a  great  laugh.  "No-no!  You  will  have  them 
all  out  of  me,  soon  enough,  anyway.  It  is  not  women  who 
are  unable  to  defend  themselves  against  men,  but  the  men 
who  are  defenseless  before  the  women — or  soon  will  be! 
Between  the  sexes  there  will  always  be  a  servile  insurrec 
tion  going  on." 

"Dux  femina  facti.  But  we  mean  to  have  our  rights." 
She  spoke  spiritedly,  with  a  lift  of  her  head;  not  a  phrase 
but  a  mere  word,  with  its  assertion  of  a  principle  involved, 
had  kindled  her  glance;  but  the  faint  flush  and  the  red 
fullness  of  the  mouth  held  his  attention.  He  wondered 
greatly  about  her  and  about  all  women;  how  much  they 
would  take  (wouldn't  it  be  all,  and  more  ever-demanded? 
weren't  they,  at  the  last,  insatiable?).  And  he  wondered 
how  much  she  (and  they)  could  tell.  .  .  . 

28 

S/elah's  mother  having  directed  at  him  a  familiar  look 
of  interrogation,  he  had  risen  and  accompanied  her  into  the 
room  used  as  a  library.  Coals  threw  heat  and  a  mild  light 
from  the  grate;  the  son  placed  candles  and  he  and  his 
mother  sat  down  to  a  game  of  chess.  Anneke  Mulford 
was  a  poor  chess-player  but  the  leisureliness  of  the  game 
afforded  her,  while  she  waited  for  her  son's  deliberated 
moves,  those  reflective  intervals,  not  too  long,  which  many 
wives  and  many  mothers  covet  toward  the  end  of  a  day. 


THE  ANSWERER  105 

Her  own  moves  were  made  without  much  premeditation,  as 
a  rule;  she  preferred  to  have  Selah  win  on  the  board  if  only 
she  succeeded  in  avoiding  a  checkmate  among  her  own 
musings. 

She  was  careful  not  to  speak  until  he  lifted  his  hand 
from  a  knight  and  it  was  her  turn. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Selah ;  it  may  hurt  you 
now,  but  will  perhaps  be  easier  for  you  later.  I  know." 

And  her  "  know  "  had  a  gentle  intonation  which  made 
him  look  up  quickly,  inquiring,  with  a  faint  uneasiness: 

"  You — know?     Know  what,  mother?  " 

Her  reply  was  perfect.  "  Son,  I  mean  I  know  what  you 
didn't  tell  me  to-day." 

His  look  was  strange,  but  she  understood  it.  The  lace 
on  her  sleeve  capsized  a  rook  and  a  pawn  as  she  reached 
and  took  his  hand  in  her  fingers,  holding  it  lightly  and  for 
just  a  moment,  with  a  little  pressure  that  was  like  a  fare 
well.  She  held  his  eyes  with  her  own. 

"  It  is  all  right,  son.  1 — Sarah  will  make  a  fine  woman 
and  a  good  wife."  She  smiled.  "  The  two  things  are  not 
the  same,  though  I  suppose  most  young  men  think  so." 

He  could  not  reply  to  her.  The  sense  of  estrangement 
from  her  which  had  so  curiously  been  upon  him  from 
that  morning  had  changed,  at  the  admission  from  her 
lips,  to  a  sudden  feeling  of  hate.  It  was  horrible  to  face 
the  fact  that  in  that  instant  he  had  hated  his  own  mother. 
He  had  thought  to  himself,  almost  immediately:  I  must 
be  utterly  unstrung,  and  not  well  nor  myself  any  longer. 
.  .  .  What  was  incomprehensible  was  that,  meeting  his 
mother's  gaze,  he  saw  she  understood  this  phase,  too. 


io6  THE   ANSWERER 

But  he  could  not  talk  to  her  about  it.  Simply,  he  could 
not.  Somehow,  between  them,  the  game  was  left  unfin 
ished,  and  they  sat  in  a  silence  looking  at  the  dropping 
coals.  At  length  she  felt  her  hand  caught,  lifted  with  a 
reluctant  wistfulness,  and  held  for  a  second  against  his  hot 
lips.  .  .  . 

29 

That  was  all  the  son  could  manage  toward  his  mother 
(and  who  knows?  perhaps  it  was  enough  and  more  than 
enough)  but  to  Selah  alone  with  Walt  in  one  of  the  large 
bedrooms  there  came  the  gift  of  words,  facile  if  none  too 
coherent. 

"  Walt,  I  am  a  changed  man!  I — do  you  know,  this 
evening,  I've  wondered  if  I  may  not  be  going  out  of  my 
mind!  The  beauty  of  it!  and  something  hurting,  hurting, 
deep  down,  shaking  me  all  over.  My  mother  .  .  .  you 
know  how  close  we've  always  been  to  each  other  and  now 
I've — sort  of — lost  her  and  yet  I'm  glad  of  it!  It  makes 
it  worse  because  I  can  see  she  understands  it  and  I  don't; 
I  feel  .  .  .  moments  .  .  .  toward  Sarah  as  a  boy,  a  young 
boy  at  his  best  feels  toward  his  mother.  That's  the  ideal 
side,  or  one  ideal  side  of  my  feeling.  The  rest  is  ...  just 
a  surge  of  passion,  I  guess.  God  help  me!  It  makes  you 
feel  so  weak;  makes  you  have  moments  when  you  want  to 
cry,  only  you  can't  cry  .  .  .  you're  just  nothing  but  a  little 
child  again.  Walt,  I  didn't  know  a  man  could  suffer  so!  " 

The  knuckles  of  his  clenched  fists  were  white.  He  turned 
on  Walt: 

"  Man!    Haven't  you  anything  to  say  to  me?  " 


THE   ANSWERER  107 

"  What  should  I  have  to  say  to  you?  "  Walt's  voice  was 
toneless. 

"  Aren't  you-— aren't  you  glad?  Come,  tell  me  you  didn't 
mean  all  you  were  saying  to  me  at  the  dinner  table!  " 

"  Oh  .  .  .  that!  How  could  I  mean  anything?  I  don't 
know  anything  about  it,  do  I?  "  A  sudden  contorting 
spasm  struck  across  his  face  and  Selah  Mulford  saw  the 
blue-gray  eyes  glisten.  "  Don't  listen  to  me,  Selah!  I've 
never  been  in  love;  likely  I  never  shall  be." 

As  if  his  own  transfigured  existence  had  given  him  an  ex 
tension  of  some  perceptive  faculty,  Sarah  Furrier's  lover 
cried  suddenly: 

"  You  are  in  love.  That's  what  brought  you  back."  All 
at  once  he  stiffened.  "  Wait!  You — she  isn't  Sarah,  is  she, 
Walt?  You  didn't  come  back  for  .  .  ." 

"It  isn't  any  one!  "  Walt  flung  back.  "That  is,  I— I 
had  remembered  some  one  but  the  whole  idea  is  preposter 
ous,  silly,  and  I  must  put  it  out  of  mind.  The — the  best 
way  to  do  that  seems  to  be  to  go  back  and  look  at  her  and 
convince  myself  that  it's  only  a  delusion." 

"  It  isn't.    I  don't  believe  it  ever  is." 

«  Well,  I—" 

"  Look  here."  Selah  rapidly  matured  his  new  self-knowl 
edge  and  offered  it  as  wisdom.  "  First  off,  I  guess,  you've 
got  to  be  in  love  with  love.  My  belief  is:  It's  something 
like  my  violin;  you  have  first  to  be  attuned  for  it.  Other 
wise  no  music's  possible.  And  even  then  there's  plenty  of 
chance  for  mistakes.  Discords.  Hang  it!  That  compari 
son's  no  good,  either."  He  thought  a  disconsolate  moment 
and  then  resumed: 


io8  THE   ANSWERER 

"  The  violin's  only  one  thing,  the  bow  that  plays  upon 
it,  that's  the  other.  Temperance — Temperance  Wines — 
was  the  wrong  bow.  And  that  doesn't  give  my  meaning. 
What  I  want  to  know  is,  Walt:  Where  does  it  really  begin? 
Who  begins  it?  And  shucks!  I  don't  care  about  that — 
how  can  I? — since  it  all  has  happened.  I'm  just  in  it,  im 
mersed."  He  lay  back  on  the  bed,  still  half-clothed,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  his  eyes  watching  the  waver 
ing  shadows  thrown  by  the  flickering  candlelight  upon  the 
low  ceiling. 

"  Walt,  when  you  love  everything  is  terrible  and  delicious ! 
You  feel  all  soft,  no  better  than  jelly,  but  you  don't  care 
and  you  know  you  could  resist,  force  through,  anything! 
And  all  the  time  your  mind  is  filled  with  lovely  images  and 
lights  and  dancing  shadows;  you  watch  the  fire  in  the  fire 
place  and  the  flames  are  singing;  you  think  of  all  the  beau 
tiful  places  you  have  ever  seen — you  mind,  don't  you?  the 
great  width  of  the  Main  Street  in  Easthampton,  where  all 
my  father's  family  came  from  these  two  hundred  years  past, 
that  wide,  wide  street  with  immense,  friendly  elms  and  the 
old  burying  ground  on  the  side  hill  and  the  serene  old 
church?  Yes,  I  think  of  Easthampton  and  the  big  elm 
trees  I  used  to  play  under  when  I  was  a  shaver  and  all  the 
plain  brown  stones  where  my  people  lie  in  rows  for  their 
rest  along  the  pleasant  street  they  made  and  walked  upon. 
I  think,  too,  of  that  seafaring  great-parent  of  mine  who 
visited  all  the  harbors  of  the  world  and  amassed  money  but, 
best  of  all,  sated  his  own  lifelong  curiosity.  I  think  of 
the  noblewoman  he  took  for  his  bride,  a  young  girl  of  an- 


THE   ANSWERER  109 

other  race  and  a  proud  family — you  know,  really,  there  was 
no  more  fiercely  aristocratic  strain  in  all  the  sweep  from 
Rome  to  the  Alps  than  the  Marquises  Brignole.  I  think  of 
her  and  my  ancestor  who  took  her  to  wife  particularly;  it 
must  have  seemed  to  both  of  them  so  vast  a  hazard  of  their 
fortunes,  of  their  respective  happiness.  No  doubt  they  were 
lifted  to  the  skies,  but  were  they  also  desperately  fright 
ened,  too,  I  wonder?  Yes,  I  wonder;  but  I  do  not  really 
care.  In  every  life,  even  the  humblest,  I  suppose,  there 
must  come  one  supreme  hour  in  which  all  one's  future  is 
clutched,  crumpled,  in  his  fingers  and  flung  down  recklessly 
— like  the  last  banknotes  on  the  roulette  table.  And  it  is 
not  as  if  there  were  anything  to  be  won!  What  can  be  won 
that  is  finer  than  the  superb  risk  of  that  moment?  There 
are  many  ways  of  challenging  fate  by  the  final  pledge,  the 
stake  of  one's  happiness.  But  what  can  compare  with  this 
way?  " 

"  You  could  so  easily  be  misunderstood,"  Walt  said,  as  if 
musing  aloud.  "  And  yet,  I  do  not  misunderstand  you. 
You  use  the  language  of  the  magnificent  gambler  but  that 
is  only  your  imagination  playing  about  the  heart  of  it  all, 
as  the  colored  flames  play  about  a  salt-soaked  piece  of  drift 
wood.  The  oak  plank  burns;  gives  forth  a  steady  heat.  I 
suppose  the  pitch  of  passion  has  to  be  reached.  .  .  .  But 
it  ought  not  to  burn  out  in  a  bonfire.  It  ought  to  light  a 
beacon.  That's  it:  Beacon  or  bonfire?  You  know,"  turn 
ing  to  Selah,  "  when  I  ask  that  I  don't  think  of  you.  You 
know  the  fellow  I  am  thinking  of."  He  gave  a  little  jerk  of 
his  arm  toward  himself.  "  The  flame  has  to  be  fed,  has  to 


no  THE  ANSWERER 

be  tended,  trimmed,  kept  steady.  I — can't,  can't  tell.  I 
.  .  .  pray  Heaven  I  may  find  out  when  again  I  see  her. 
Soon,  oh,  soon!  " 

30 

Selah  bade  him  good-night  and  left  him,  and  Walt  snuffed 
out  his  candle,  trying  for  sleep.  There  was  none  and  he 
fell  to  thinking  of  what  Margaret  Fuller  had  said  that  eve 
ning  after  Selah  and  his  'mother  were  at  their  chess.  He 
had  said,  reverting  to  the  topic  of  love,  that  he  supposed 
women  speculated  about  it,  theorized,  much  more  than  men. 
To  which  she  had  instantly  answered: 

"Women  don't  theorize  about  love;  no.  They  consider 
actual  cases." 

"  Is  the  sex  so  practical?  " 

"  It  is  we  who  are  practical,  Mr.  Whitman,  and  you  men 
who  walk  with  your  heads  in  the  clouds." 

"  And  you  don't  analyze  your  feelings?  " 

"Oh,  never! — I  am  talking  about  my  sex,  not  myself. 
We  are  too  busy  feeling  to  do  anything  of  the  sort.  And  we 
never  go  back  afterward  to  dissect.  You  may  have  read 
Wordsworth's  definition  of  poetry  as  emotion  recollected  in 
tranquillity.  Under  that  definition,  no  woman  could  ever 
qualify  as  a  poet.  Women  do  not  recollect  emotions  any 
more  than  the  bridge  recollects  the  water  that  has  flowed 
under  it.  Women  may  re-live  certain  moments — just  as  the 
same  water,  turned  about,  can  be  made  to  flow  back  under 
the  bridge.  But  that  is  not  recollection  and  it  is  not  tran 
quil." 

The  inflection  of  her  voice,  in  pronouncing  that  last  sen- 


THE   ANSWERER  in 

tence,  was  undisturbed;  had  it  any  significance  personal  to 
her?  Walt  had  asked  himself.  He  thought  not,  but  he  had 
ventured  saying: 

"  You  differentiate  yourself  from  your  sex  as  a  whole 
in  all  this?  " 

"  I  am  different,"  she  admitted.  "  I  suppose,  one  of 
these  days,  I  shall  find  myself  less  different  than  I  now 
imagine."  Then  it  was  all  ahead  of  her,  he  deduced,  not 
bothering  to  define  "  it."  She  was  going  on: 

"  The  important  thing  is  to  recognize  a  difference — exag- 
generation  of  it  effects  its  own  cure.  What  women  need  is, 
on  the  intellectual  side,  to  strive  to  be  more  like  men.  In 
doing  so  they  will  run  no  real  risk  of  becoming  less  the 
woman.  Except  in  isolated  cases.  It  is  something  like 
plants.  You  have  heard  of  the  methods  of  these  skilled 
gardeners,  these  horticulturists?  They  cross-fertilize.  We 
don't  understand  it  yet,  quite;  but  we  get  new  varieties. 
Sex  always  remains." 

"  You  would  have  women  become,  in  ways  of  thought, 
more  nearly  like  men,  or  try  hard  to;  but  how  about  men? 
Wouldn't  it  be  equally  good  if  men,  on  the  emotional  side, 
could  become  more  like  women,  or  try  for  it?  " 

"  Why,  yes  " — thoughtfully — "  for  that  would  mean  a 
more  humane  world.  It  is  feeling,  not  our  reason,  that  oils 
our  lives.  A  man  can  have  the  quick,  sensitive  feeling  of  a 
woman  without  the  sacrifice  of  manhood — courage  or 
strength.  All  the  great  poets,  or  artists  of  any  sort,  have 
this  feminine  niceness,  sensitiveness." 

"And  all  your  women  who  succeed  in  acquiring  some 
thing  of  the  male  mind — what  will  they  become?  " 


112  THE   ANSWERER 

"  Don't  forget  we  have  always  had  one  such,  now  and 
again." 

"  But  when?    Who?  " 

"  How  about  England's  Queen  Elizabeth?  " 

"  You  don't  mean  her  good  male  swearing?  " 

"  I  mean  her  statecraft,  her  bold  imagination,  her  cour 
age." 

"  Another?  " 

"  Joan  of  Arc?  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  can  confute  you." 

"  But  observe  this,"  she  directed  him.  "  The  immortal 
great  do  not  find  their  sublime  fulfilment  in  sex.  The  Virgin 
Queen,  the  Maid  of  Orleans — oh,  I  know,  often  they  marry, 
but  it  is  marriage  so  frequently  drained  of  something;  they 
do  not  bring  their  best  to  marriage,  but  their  second  best. 
It  has  to  be." 

"  Would  you  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  a  man  who  loves 
to  the  deepest  depth  and  to  the  highest  height  of  his  being 
might  know  by  that,  and  know  then,  that  he  was  not  marked 
for  ultimate  greatness — I  mean  in  the  future  reckoning  of 
his  fellows?  " 

"  Not  just  that.  He  is  ready  with  the  gift  of  his  Self, 
in  its  finest  flower;  but  the  gift  may  be  denied;  his  love 
may  suffer  a  disappointment.  This  precious  gift  may  be 
left  in  his  hands,  and  if  that  experience  does  not  kill  some 
thing  in  it  he  may  yet  give  the  gift,  in  another  shape,  to 
the  world  at  large." 

Walt  had  had  a  sense  of  tremendous  destiny  quivering  in 
the  balance  ...  his  own  and  yet  not  his  own.  Had  this 
been  simple,  naive  conceit?  Was  it  mere  swollen  ego  in 


THE  ANSWERER  113 

himself?  He  could  not  tell.  There  must  be  times  when 
every  man,  to  himself,  played  Napoleon,  or  Alexander,  or 
Shakespeare,  or  saw  himself  seated  among  the  Olympians, 
or  heard  his  own  inner  voice,  enthralled,  as  if  a  god 
spoke.  .  .  . 

Every  man  had  one  supreme  gift  to  offer,  once,  or  per 
haps  after  frustration  a  second  time,  the  gift  of  his  Self  in 
finest,  fullest  flower.  He  made  the  gift  to  the  many  or  to 
the  one.  And  perhaps  it  was  rejected  by  the  one  and  ac 
cepted  by  the  many,  or  perhaps  it  was  not  enough  for  the 
many  but  overflowed  for  the  one.  Which?  And  how  did 
one  know?  And  how  far  was  the  gift  voluntary?  And 
when  was  it  proffered? 

To  these  questions  there  seemed,  more  acutely  than  ever, 
no  answer. 

As  he  lay  there,  very  wakeful  in  the  darkness,  the  fresh 
air  of  the  May  night  entering  through  an  opened  window, 
he  thought  with  a  faint  bitterness  of  his  own  vision  of  him 
self  as  the  Answerer,  one  who  should  feel  all,  understand 
all,  and  to  all,  however  small  the  offering,  bring  some  de 
sired  gift.  An  Answerer?  He  who  was  on  the  knife-blade 
of  torment  and  could  not  shrink  away  from  it?  He,  then, 
was  to  save  others,  somehow,  who  could  not  save  himself  — 
he? 


In  the  night  he  dreamed,  a  thing  he  never  did.  He  was 
somewhere  in  a  neutral,  misty  region  and  at  a  little  distance 
there  sat  a  creature  enthroned;  he  knew  she  was  a  woman, 
but  who  he  could  not  tell,  and  her  face  was  hidden,  turned 


H4  THE   ANSWERER 

away  from  him.  As  he  regarded  her  speechlessly,  for  how 
long  a  time  he  could  not  have  told,  slowly  her  head  turned 
toward  him  and  her  face  shone  upon  him. 

The  effect  was  instant  and  terrible.  He  flung  himself  on 
the  ground  at  her  feet,  with  shaking  hands  caught  the  hem 
of  her  robe  and  drew  it  to  his  twisting  lips.  He  did  this 
conscious  only  of  an  irresistible  and  overwhelming  impul 
sion  from  within,  as  if  the  pure  and  beneficent  light  of  an 
immortal  countenance  had  struck  into  his  soul  and  set  it 
free  in  a  realm  of  ether  lit  by  a  single  glance.  ...  He  saw 
her  face  as  one  sees  the  sun  and  could  not  bear  to  look  upon 
it.  He  could  only  know  that  she  shone  upon  him  kindly. 
He  could  only  know,  sense  somehow,  that  this  was  a  Wo 
man.  .  .  . 

Waking,  he  found  himself  sobbing  weakly,  without  tears. 
It  was  a  long  while  before  he  could  regain  any  control  of 
himself  as  he  lay  there.  And  he  tried  desperately  to  under 
stand.  He  had  not  truly  seen  that  Face;  there  could  be  no 
such  thing  as  recognition  were  he  to  look  again  upon  it.  He 
would  know  it  in  one  way  only,  by  its  effect  upon  him. 
There  were  not  words  to  describe  the  awe,  the  terror,  the 
ecstacy  and  the  surrender  of  that  moment  .  .  .  there  were 
not  words  .  .  .  and  it  might  be  that  there  was  not  the 
emotion.  .  .  . 

Was  this  a  dreamlike  apotheosis  of  love?  for  his  thought 
shrank  from  the  suggestion  that  the  Face  was  one  of  any 
mortal  woman,  though  it  might  be  a  composite  of  many 
mortal  faces  and  sum  up  in  the  radiance  of  its  look  all  those 
mortal  attributes  that  were  incorruptible,  beyond-earthly 


THE   ANSWERER  115 

and  sublime.  He  thought  of  old  Greek  legends,  of  the  Me 
dusa  who  symbolized  the  starlit  night,  of  the  Furies  with 
snaky  locks  denoting  the  searching  light  of  day  from  which 
nothing  was  hidden,  of  lovely  lole,  personification  of  the 
violet-colored  clouds  which  loved  to  swim  above  the  Ionian 
isles.  All  these  glorious  conceptions  faded  into  dimness  be 
side  the  racking  reality  of  what  had  been  merely  his  dream. 
Because  it  did  not  fade  nor  dim  on  waking,  the  image 
took  on  for  him  an  impressive  nature,  became  both  a  por 
tent  and  an  eidolon.  It  stood  outside  himself  but  it  came 
from  within  himself.  It  was  a  Body  within  his  body,  the 
real  I-myself,  the  whole  purport  of  the  fleshed  being  called 
Walt  Whitman.  He  had  asked  for  answers,  and  his  Self 
had  given  this  .  .  .  Answer. 

32 

From  that  stark  conclusion  he  could  not  escape  and  it 
rested,  recessed  but  present,  in  his  consciousness  (he  se 
cretly  knew  he  should  never  evict  it  and  it  would  go  on  with 
its  silent  attendance  upon  everything  he  did).  What  the 
image  meant,  what  the  eidolon  portrayed,  would  become 
clear.  This  Woman  who  left  him  sobbing  tearlessly  was 
something  that  entered  into  and  was  a  fixed  part  of  the  true 
Walt  Whitman.  That  kneeling  figure,  weak  and  overcome, 
was  also  a  fixed  part  of  the  true  Walt  Whitman.  A  circle 
that  had  to  be  pondered,  and,  duly  pondered,  would  remain 
a  circle  ...  or  a  spiral?  opening  out,  opening  out,  in  ever- 
enlarging  arcs  and  whorls  into  eternity?  .  .  .  and  closing 
in,  with  sinuous,  curved  perfection  into  a  dot,  into  a  mathe- 


Ii6  THE   ANSWERER 

matical  point  without  thickness  or  breadth  or  any  dimension 
whatever?  and  the  curve  was  Walt  Whitman  and  curved 
both  ways. 

Long,  deep  breaths,  effortlessly  exhaled.    He  slept. 

33 

By  a  different  road  than  the  one  he  had  struck  in  quit 
ting  it,  Walt  reentered  the  valley  the  next  morning.  It  was 
a  day  of  mist  which  fumed  out  of  hollows  as  if  a  dozen 
incantations  were  progressing  at  once;  of  sunshine  which 
laid  spears  of  gold-washed  light  on  the  wooded  hillsides  and, 
interpenetrating  the  rising  mist,  made  the  luminous  and  tex 
tured  atmosphere  essential  for  miracles.  Fifth  Month! 
May. 

The  age  of  miracles  is  not  past,  thought  Walt,  and  I  might 
be  living  in  those  middle  centuries  when,  on  such  a  day, 
there  set  forth  afoot  or  on  horseback  young  men  like  my 
self,  going  to  join  the  Crusade  and  carolling  as  they  went. 
He  recalled  the  words  of  the  old  Crusaders'  Hymn: 

"  Fairest  Lord  Jesus, 
Ruler  of  all  nature, 
O,  Thou  of  God  and  man  the  Son ! 
Thee  will  I  cherish, 
Thee  will  I  honor, 
Thou,  my  heart's  glory,  joy  and  crown. 

"  Fair  are  the  meadows, 
Fairer  still  the  woodlands 
Robed  in  the  blooming  garb  of  spring. 
Jesus  is   fairer, 
Jesus  is  purer, 
Who  makes  the  woeful  heart  to  sing.  .  .  ." 

A  naive  joy  must  have  filled  their  breasts  and  innocently 
they  had  confounded  a  pagan  pleasure  in  the  beauty  of  the 


THE   ANSWERER  117 

hour  and  season  with  the  profounder  and  less-understood 
exaltation  of  their  holy  errand.  .  .  .  Holy  because  inno 
cently  entered  upon.  Holy  because  their  hearts  were  en 
listed. 

This,  the  heart,  unquestioning,  valorous  and  unafraid,  was 
the  true  holiness  of  any  undertaking,  and  alone  sanctified 
it  by  the  pure  emotion  poured  out  unstintingly  by  humble 
men.  It  was  what  men  brought  to  a  quest  that  made  the 
quest  holy.  Not  even  the  long,  legendary  hunt  for  the  Grail 
had  possessed  significance  except  as  men  endowed  it  with 
the  deepest  significance.  .  .  .  There  was  a  lesson  here. 

How  dear,  familiar  and  welcoming  looked  the  roomy  farm 
house!  It  stood  behind  a  row  of  whitewashed  palings  and 
the  tall  lilac  bush  in  the  dooryard  was  rich  with  blossoms, 
great  purple  clusters  and,  around  by  the  kitchen  door,  an 
other  bush  was  just  bursting  into  white.  The  scent  of  the 
lilacs  filled  the  air  as  he  came  up  to  the  fence;  their  strong 
perfume  mastered  his  senses  so  that  he  felt  giddy  and 
reached  out  a  hand  to  grasp  a  paling.  He  stood  so  for  some 
minutes. 

A  thump  on  the  shoulder  and  a  young  arm  flung  about 
his  neck  woke  him;  he  looked  up  into  the  face  of  young 
Freegift  Terry;  boy  confronted  boy  and  tried  to  bundle  the 
other  in  his  arms;  they  hugged,  thrust  apart,  hugged  again; 
then  stood  with  glad,  meeting  eyes.  Those  of  the  youngest 
son  of  Farmer  Freegift  Terry  were  brown,  lustrous  and  ap- 
pealingly  affectionate.  The  contours  of  his  face  had  a  thin 
ness,  an  unaccentuation  of  especial  charm,  the  charm  of 
something  not  quite  finished.  He  had  none  of  Walt's 
achieved  growth  and  perfect  bodily  symmetry;  was  slim- 


ii8  THE   ANSWERER 

mer,  definitely  masculine  but  indefinitely  immature.  That 
there  was  but  two  years  difference  in  their  ages  was  incred 
ible  ;  more  incredible  was  it,  as  Walt  had  once  declared,  that 
they  were  the  same  animal;  and  he  had  added:  "  Are  we? 
Maybe  not.  You  are  not  a  faun,  I  suppose,  and  I  am  not  a 
centaur;  yet  we  are  as  far  apart  to  the  eye  as  a  faun  and  a 
centaur." 

"Hello,  young  critter!  " 

"  Where  away  and  why,  old  critter?  " 

"  Freegift,  I  made  a  sort  of  mistake.  I  should  'a'  taken 
you  with  me;  then  we'd  'a'  got  somewhere.  I  ...  I  jest 
been  over  and  roundabout  Babylon." 

"  Father's  holding  your  wage." 

"  Oh,  that  .  .  .yes.  Where's  all  the  rest,  'sides  your 
self?  " 

"  We're  all  here,  scattered  about  as  the  work  takes  us." 

"  What'll  I  do  for  my  keep?  " 

"  We're  clearing  some  more  ground,  besides  the  planting." 

"  I  suppose  your  mother's  well,  and  Esther?  " 

"  Esther's  got  a  beau.    David  Sayre." 

"  That  Smithtown  fellow?  " 

"  Yes  ...  why,  what  about  him?  " 

The  look  on  Walt's  face  dissolved.  "Nothing  about 
him"  he  said,  simply.  "  I  was  only  wondering  about — 
Esther." 

"  She's  all  right,"  replied  her  brother,  carelessly.  "  I've 
got  to  go  out  in  the  field.  See  you  at  dinner." 

Walt  stood  a  while  longer  by  the  palings.  He  was  recall 
ing  David  Sayre,  a  bashful  young  farmer  with  a  shock  of 
reddish  hair  and  a  mild,  freckled  countenance.  It  was  no 


THE   ANSWERER  119 

wonder  he  came  after  Esther  but  to  her  he  must  seem, 
though  pleasant  and  kind,  both  unattractive  and  dull.  He 
would  be  like  having  mashed  turnips  every  day  for  dinner. 

Walt  made  this  reflection  almost  grimly.  He  turned  the 
house  and  there  Esther  stood. 

A  remembered  vision  struck  alive,  made  a  reality.  She 
faced  him,  with  a  look  of  surprise  changing  to  delight.  So! 
— just  as  he  had  recollected,  the  sun  made  her  blue  eyes, 
flecked  with  golden-brown,  appear  to  dance  (though  veil- 
edly).  The  saddle-colored  hair,  put  up  in  coils,  was  not  in 
the  least  lustrous  but  drank  in  the  sunlight  and  intensified 
the  warmness  of  its  brown.  The  bare  forearm,  the  little 
roundedness  of  her  shoulders  .  .  . 

He  supposed  they  greeted  each  other  and  a  remark  or  two 
must  presumably  have  been  interchanged ;  at  the  instant  and 
afterward  he  could  be  sure  of  absolutely  nothing  except  the 
swift  destruction  of  all  his  preconceptions,  theories  and  self- 
willed  ideas.  She  affected  his  senses  as  had  the  fragrant 
lilacs.  She  was  an  embodiment  of  the  deliciousness  of  the 
air  and  the  sunshine  and  the  innocently  gay  Fifth  Month 
morning.  She  made  him  feel  like  a  clod,  a  prig  and  a  fool; 
and  in  the  inconceivably  rapid  pulsations  that  her  presence 
set  up  within  him  he  oscillated  between  a  feeling  unfathom- 
ably  tender  and  a  stony  insensitiveness  that  was  not  so  much 
hate  as  a  wish  for  her  obliteration,  a  wish  she  had  never 
been  born. 

34 

.  .  ,  Afterward,  reliving  those  hours  after  Walt's  return 
from  wayfaring,  Esther  Terry  did  not  see  how  she  could 


120  THE   ANSWERER 

have  behaved  otherwise.  And  this  was  absolutely  the  only 
comment  in  which  her  woman's  mind  indulged.  For  she 
was  a  woman.  Many  girls  of  her  own  seventeen  years  were 
already  married  and  remained,  essentially,  girls  still.  She 
in  her  singleness  was  conscious  of  her  distinct  superiority 
to  them;  she  was  older  in  perceptiveness ;  she  was  wiser 
because  she  shared  their  mtimacies  and  their  combined  ex 
perience  and,  through  them,  led  several  lives  vicariously  her 
own. 

Being  a  woman  she  did  not  analyze  what  she  knew;  she 
was  not  interested  in  any  effort  to  reach  general  conclusions ; 
and  she  knew  well  that,  like  all  her  sex,  if  she  were  misled 
it  would  not  be  in  the  manner  in  which  men  were  invariably 
misled,  by  some  glittering  proverb  or  piece  of  compressed 
and  so-called  wisdom,  but  by  a  hesitation  in  which  the  clear 
guidance  of  her  instinct  would  be  lost. 

She  said  to  herself  that  she  didn't  see  how  she  could  have 
acted  otherwise.  Then  mentally  she  crossed  out  the  word 
"  acted  "  and  substituted  for  it  the  word  "  behaved."  That 
was  better,  for  her  part  throughout  had  been  passive;  had 
been  exclusively  a  matter  of  behavior,  of  outwardness  and 
attitude  underlain  by  the  invincible  operation  of  her  in 
stinct  which,  thank  gracious  goodness,  had  never  in  all  those 
hours,  interspersed  through  several  days  of  a  week  in  May, 
become  numbed.  What  might  have  happened  to  it  if  she 
had  not  already  come  to  think  of  David  Sayre  "  in  that 
way,"  she  didn't  know — or  think  about— or  care,  since  she 
had. 

The  moment  Walt  surprised  her,  coming  around  the  house, 
she  had  read  in  his  glance  the  why  of  his  return.  The  fact 


THE   ANSWERER  121 

that  he  had  been  certain  to  come  back  to  the  farm,  that  his 
re-appearance  might  be  looked  for  any  day,  was  just  as 
well  since  it  was  "  why  "  enough  for  the  men — her  father 
and  her  brothers.  All  men  wanted  was  a  reason  and  they 
were  perfectly  satisfied.  That  was  what  had  always  made 
relations  with  Walt — the  casual  contacts  in  her  home  while 
he  was  "  boarding  out  "  with  them — a  special  problem.  He 
was  unique;  appearances  never  satisfied  him;  a  man's  suf 
ficient  reason  was  not  always  his  motive;  he  so  often  sensed 
things  which  were  otherwise  the  little,  harmless  secrets  of 
her  mother  and  herself  from  the  men-folks.  Many  and 
many  a  time  she  and  he  had  looked  across  the  table  at  each 
other,  their  eyes  exchanging  trifling  intelligence  with  or 
without  an  accompanying  smile.  As  when  she  had  suddenly 
decided  that  the  gown  with  three  flowered  ruffles  was  un 
becoming.  She  had  just  remarked  to  Mrs.  Terry  (of  course, 
with  a  look)  that  it  seemed  to  have  faded  and  plainly  wasn't 
going  to  wear  well.  The  "  men  "  had  complained  of  her 
non-appearance  in  it  any  longer ;  whereupon  she  and  Mother 
had  told  them  about  its  fading.  .  .  .  After  a  little  grumbling 
they  had  subsided,  forgetting  all  about  the  dress  forever; 
but  Walt  had  just  looked  at  her  and  said,  easily: 

"  It's  a  fact  a  dress  like  that  will  fade  overnight,  al 
most." 

You  see!  He  was  helping  her  out  (for  he  spoke  with  calm 
seriousness,  handing  out  to  the  men  one  of  those  "  facts  " 
they  insisted  on  having  dished  up,  like  boiled  hominy  which 
must  always  "  go  with  "  the  pork).  And  at  the  same  time, 
his  eyes  told  her  he  was  both  poking  fun  and  approving — 
above  all,  he  knew., 


122  THE   ANSWERER 

And  in  his  knowledge,  he  was  nearly  always  sympathetic 
and  unfailingly  loyal  to  her  secrets,  or  her  mother's.  That 
made  him  fun,  with  a  constant  little  edge  of  excitement. 
In  his  role  as  a  sort  of  bystander.  Esther  had  never  thought 
of  him,  then,  in  any  other  role.  For  some  time.  Then,  be 
cause  he  was  a  man,  and  because  it  was  her  feminine  pre 
rogative  to  re-arrange  the  cast  of  her  acquaintances  and  put 
every  one  of  the  opposite  sex  in  different  roles,  except  those 
whose  parts  were  fixed  by  the  ties  of  close  relationship,  she 
had  mentally  cast  Walt  for  the  leading  part  in  the  drama  in 
which  she  was  playing  and  would  continue  to  play  Esther 
Terry,  a  drama  which,  if  not  exactly  Shakespearian,  was 
delightfully  her  own. 

Walt  as  hero  had  not  suited  the  requirements  of  her 
imagined  play.  He  knew  too  much.  He  was  admirable  as 
the  friend  of  the  heroine.  He  would,  of  course,  be  the  friend 
of  the  heroine's  husband-lover.  But  his  true  allegiance 
would  be  to  the  heroine  herself;  he  would  never  give  her 
away  to  her  husband.  Women  need  such  a  friend  (Esther 
was  thinking  of  what  she  had  observed  and  what  she  had 
heard  from  the  girls  she  knew  who  were  not  long  married). 
Women  need  such  a  friend  but  such  a  friend  is  rarely  vouch 
safed  them  outside  their  own  sex.  And  the  near  friend,  if  a 
woman,  cannot  help  so  much.  Let  us  see:  She  can  console, 
advise,  and  help  weave  the  harmless  plots  by  which  the 
married  woman  effectuates  her  happiness — and  his,  if  only 
he  knew  it!  But  that  is  all.  The  near  friend,  if  a  woman, 
can  do  nothing  directly  or  indirectly  with  him;  if  he  so  much 
as  suspects  any  special  intimacy  between  her  and  his  wife 
he  will  hate  her  with  a  jealous  hate,  particularly  in  the  first 


THE   ANSWERER  123 

years  of  marriage.    It  is  a  part  of  his  darling  stupidity;  he 
is  made  that  way;  he  cannot  help  himself. 

The  near  friend,  if  a  man,  has  a  role  so  difficult  that  you 
never  cast  any  one  in  it  unless  he  assumes  it  himself.  It 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  ...  like  making  an  actor  play  Hamlet 
and  then  asserting  he  was  no  actor  though  he  was  admirable 
in  dozens  of  other  parts.  But  if  a  man  assumes  the  role  of 
the  near  friend,  if  he  never  communicates  directly  but  only 
senses  things  unfailingly,  and  if  he  then,  when  the  occasion 
demands  it,  proceeds  independently;  if,  without  seeming  to, 
he  now  and  again  steers  the  husband  just  the  littlest  bit  as  a 
man  can  steer  another  ...  if,  if,  if!  ...  he  can  be  won 
derful!  Such  a  performance,  solely  for  an  audience  of  one, 
is  priceless.  It  is  like  a  world-artist  appearing  exclusively 
before  a  queen  in  a  drama  on  which  the  happiness  and  even 
the  lives  of  both  are  depending.  .  .  .  The  audience  and  the 
play  are  invisibly  one. 

Such,  not  bothered  to  be  put  into  words,  had  been  Esther 
Terry's  complete  understanding.  She  was  seventeen  and 
she  was  seventy.  Born  and  brought  up  on  a  farm,  a  drama 
was,  to  her,  the  expression  of  actual  lives,  like  those  she 
saw  being  lived  around  her,  in  terms  of  the  printed  Shake 
speare  which  was  her  only  knowledge  of  a  play.  She  had 
never  seen  an  acted  play,  nor  been  inside  a  playhouse;  when 
she  read  Shakespeare,  therefore,  she  had  no  feeling  of  artifice 
except  in  the  language — and  that  (no  doubt)  was  mostly 
because  it  belonged  to  earlier  centuries.  For  her  Shake 
speare  had  no  suggestion  of  scenery,  stage  costumes,  antique 
clothing,  trappings  or  conventions;  Othello  was  not  a 
swarthy,  ranting  Moor  but  a  jealous  husband;  Portia  was  a 


124  THE   ANSWERER 

woman  besting  a  man  with  man's  own  weapons;  Juliet  and 
her  lover  were  any  young  pair  thwarted  by  their  elders,  as 
young  Richard  Reeve  and  Mary  Homan  had  been  thwarted. 
Life  was  Shakespeare  with  variations. 

It  was  Walt  who  had  intensified  her  enjoyment  of  those 
classical  plays  by  the  manner  of  his  reading  aloud.  He  had 
not  assumed  that  because  she  was  seventeen  and  a  girl,  she 
couldn't  get  their  full  meaning.  Instead,  he  had  let  her 
know  that  he  understood  them  as  well  as  she.  That  had 
been  her  first  insight  into  his  possibilities.  They,  were  not 
possibilities  as  a  husband.  With  such  a  husband  there 
would  be  no  drama.  The  successful  heroine,  the  truly  happy 
wife,  was  one  whose  husband  discovered  and  re-discovered 
her  fitness  in  her  role.  But  Walt  knew  all  about  such  a 
thing  from  the  start;  he  would  have  to  pretend  .  .  .  worse, 
her  innocent  pretending  would  be  spoiled  by  his  seeing 
through  everything.  People  who  see  through  cannot  "  play 
against "  each  other. 

All  this  understood,  or  felt;  not  exactly  thought;  let  it  be 
impressed:  Not  bothered  to  be  put  into  words  (quite  un- 
wordable,  anyway). 

This  settled,  the  re-casting  of  characters  could  go  on; 
it  was  all  so  tentative  and  agreeable  and,  as  yet,  comfortingly 
inconclusive.  Men  drill,  themselves  or  each  other;  but 
women  rehearse.  Neither  the  absolutely  satisfactory  hat  or 
husband  exists.  Seventeen-year-old  Esther  Terry  had  not 
acquired  this  valuable  piece  of  knowledge  in  her  seventeen 
years;  she  had  been  born  with  it.  With  the  innocence  that 
was  also  a  birthright  she  had  imagined  every  eligible  man 
as  her  leading  man,  David  Sayre  among  others,  and  he  had 


THE  ANSWERER  125 

been  as  satisfactory  as  any.  Indeed,  it  was  in  his  favor  that 
he  had  been  among  the  first  her  imagination  had  tried;  for 
this  made  more  likely  her  ultimate  mental  return  to  him. 
Before  that  had  come  about,  his  mild,  freckled  face  had 
begun  to  appear  with  an  observable  regularity  at  the  Terry 
farm.  He  had  sat  with  them,  evenings,  in  the  parlor.  He 
had  excelled  himself  in  bashfulness  in  her  presence.  He 
had  not  spoken  and  Esther  considered  it  improbable  that 
— well,  exactly — he  ever  would.  But  this  was  what  she 
wanted;  hers  was  the  bigger  part  to  play,  wasn't  it? 

Then,  interrupting  the  nicely-going  scene,  Walt. 

In  his  look  as  he  stood  before  her,  in  his  voice  full  of 
nervous  excitement,  she  grasped  the  meaning  and  the  pur 
pose  of  the  interruption.  For  just  a  moment  it  threw  her 
into  complete  confusion;  she  felt  she  must  be  blushing  and 
her  knees  had  a  curious  tendency  to  give  way  under  her. 
But,  she  saw  immediately,  he  was  far  too  disturbed  to  no 
tice  anything.  What  had  profoundly  astonished  her,  how 
ever,  was  the  revelation  that  afternoon,  when  they  man 
aged  a  half-hour  together,  of  the  change  effected  in  him. 
She  ran  through  what  they  had  said  to  each  other,  adding 
the  interpretations  her  mind  had  placed  upon  it  at  the  time. 

Of  course  the  real  starting-point  was  when  he  had  said: 

"  Esther,  I  came  back  because  I've  discovered  I  love 
you." 

"  Walt,  I  couldn't  ever  marry  you  " — under  her  wistful- 
ness  she  was  invaded  by  an  unexpected  pang  at  the  thought 
she  couldn't.  It  was  purely  a  woman's  regret  at  having  to 
put  aside  something  that  wouldn't  just  do  but  yet  was 
fascinating.  He  was  fascinating. 


126  THE   ANSWERER 

She  felt  that  more  strongly  than  ever  in  the  short  silence 
which  was  terminated  by  his  saying: 

"  I  can't  believe  you  are  in  love  with  Davy  Sayre." 

Said  not  a  bit  scornfully,  but  with  a  note  of  bewilderment 
she  never  remembered  to  have  heard  before  in  his  voice. 
That  elusive  accent  had  been  her  first  glimpse  of  how 
changed  he  was. 

"  I  can't  believe  you  are  in  love  with  me" 

"  Oh,  but  I  am!  "  he  had  exclaimed  with  extraordinary 
tenderness.  "  I'm  not  self-deceived  now.  And  I'm  not  so 
good-and-stupid  in  the  man-fashion  as  to  think  that,  if  I 
were,  it  wouldn't  be  plain  to  you.  The  thought  of  love  came 
first,  the  thought  of  you  afterward;  but  one  led  surely  to 
the  other.  And  then  I  began  to  suffer.  ...  I  suffered  un 
til  I  saw  you  this  morning.  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  felt  at 
that  moment.  I  had  pictured  what  it  would  be;  then  the 
very  blood  in  my  veins  became  etcher's  acid.  Don't  you 
see  what  you  have  done  to  me?  don't  you?  " 

She  saw,  this  time  with  a  thrill  of  fright,  that  something 
corrosive  had  been  at  work,  and  was.  And  he  was  sincere 
in  thinking  it  was  herself,  or  the  vision  of  herself.  But — 
how  could  it  be  so?  They  had  been  apart.  And  any  thought 
of  him  had  been  without  effect  of  that  sort  on  her. 

"  I  can  see  you  have  changed,  somehow." 

"How?" 

"  You  have  met  some  one,  or  heard  something,  that  has 
worked  upon  you.  You  thought  of  love,  then  you  thought 
of  me;  that  was  the  wrong  way  about.  If  the  thought  of 
me  had  deepened  and  broadened  ...  I  don't  believe  I  can 
explain  what  I  mean;  but  it  is  this:  If  ever  I  were  to  love  a 


THE   ANSWERER  127 

man" — and  she  had  been  thinking  of  David  Sayre;  not 
wilfully ;  he  had  just  bashfully  intruded  himself — "  I  would 
have  the  thought  of  him  first  and  the  thought  of  love,  of 
my  loving  him,  afterward." 

He  had  protested  it  couldn't  make  any  difference  (and 
this  had  been  a  further  clue  to  what  the  change  was  that 
had  come  over  him). 

"I've  arrived  .  .  .  that's  all  that  matters!  Wait!  Let 
me  tell  you  what  it  means.  .  .  ." 

Then  had  come  his  wonderful  description — wonderful 
even  if  he  mistook  meanings.  Poor  boy!  he  couldn't  see 
aright;  it  wasn't  his  fault. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  unlucky.  I  know,  in  ways,  I  am  dif 
ferent  from  most  young  fellows.  And  to  be  different  is 
unlucky.  But  it  need  not  last.  It  can  be  overcome — while 
you're  young,  flexible,  strong.  Don't  we  bend  trees  to 
make  a  hedgerow  along  the  boundary  ditch?  And  we  yoke 
young  people  and  mostly  they  team  well.  I  thought  it  over 
— much.  And  I  saw  something  of  what  it  meant.  I  mean 
not  only  love  but  marriage  where  love  is.  There  needed 
to  be  passion.  The  thought  of  her,  or  of  him,  mustn't  leave 
you  physically  unmoved.  But  more  than  that  was  needed. 
A  great  faith  in  life  itself  was  needed.  That  would  last. 
That  would  last  because  it  was  the  true  passion,  the  larger 
love.  It  would  be  so  big  you  could  never  pass  beyond  it; 
a  Life  immense,  buoyant,  enclosing  and  outreaching  the  very 
stars!  And  more  real  than  this  world  about  us,  because 
self-created.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see,  Esther?  A  man  is  a  new 
Adam  in  a  universe  of  his  own  fashioning  and  at  last  he 


328  THE   ANSWERER 

fashions  a  woman,  really  from  himself,  to  share  with  him 
all  its  loveliness  and  beauty  and  grandeur.  .  .  ." 

After  a  little  she  had  said: 

"  That  is  just  it,  Walt.  It  isn't  I  you  love,  but  what  you 
make  of  me,  build  around  me.  Something,  as  you  say,  fash 
ioned  '  really  from  yourself.'  I  am  Eve,  just  an  after 
thought.  You  created  this  New  World  without  me.  Oh, 
Walt!  you  will  never  persuade  any  girl  that  way!  She 
must  come  first!  " 

She  hadn't  been  able  to  help  that  vexed  exclamation, 
though  out  of  a  real  pity  for  him  she  had  kept  back  the 
rest.  She  had  wanted  to  cry  out:  You  are  changed,  and 
at  last  I  understand  how.  Something  has  destroyed  your 
special  gift,  or  numbed  it.  Now  you  are  just  as  unseeing 
as  any  other  man.  They  say  love  is  blind.  It  has  blinded 
you.  Why,  a  month  ago  you  would  have  read  me  at  once, 
would  have  known  everything  about  Davy  and  myself;  I 
couldn't  have  kept  a  bit  of  it  from  you  and  if  you  had 
chosen  to  break  it  up  ...  to  interfere  .  .  .  you  might 
have  succeeded  ...  I  don't  know!  But  then,  you 
wouldn't  have  been  in  love  with  me  yourself  and  you 
wouldn't  have  wanted  to  interfere.  Now,  when  you  do 
want  to  interfere,  your  clear  sight  is  gone  and  you  just 
grope  about  with  eager  fingers.  .  .  .  I  do  feel  sorry  for 
you!  but  I  don't  love  you  and  I  never  shall.  I  shall  love 
Davy.  I  ... 

And  with  shut  eyes  she  had  endured  the  kisses  on  face 
and  throat,  the  quiver  of  the  firm  hand  grasping  her  shoul 
der;  a  feeling  delicious  and  sad  had  flooded  her  and  all 


THE   ANSWERER  129 

the  time,  behind  dropped  eyelids,  she  had  been  imaging 
the  face  so  close  to  her  own  as  Davy's.  ...  It  had  made 
her  ache  with  joy  to  think  of  the  time  when  Davy  would 
discover  that  she  wanted  .  .  .  this  ...  of  him,  and 
would  give  it  her.  What  made  Davy  so  dear  was  the 
realization  that  she  could  give  him  unimagined  ecstacy, 
ecstacy  he  didn't  know  existed. 

"No!  No!  "  she  had  found  herself  answering  to  Walt's 
whispers.  "  I — don't — love  you,  Walt.  I  " — she  had  weak 
ened,  or  relented,  sufficiently  to  add — "  believe  you  do  love 
me  in  a — a  quite  strange  way.  I  am  sorry." 

She  was  too  shaken  to  stand  any  more,  then,  and  had 
made  him  leave  her. 

35 

.  .  .  There  had  been  several  other  encounters  but  the 
only  one  in  which  any  new  or  significant  light  had  been 
shed,  for  her,  upon  the  nature  of  Walt's  feeling  had  oc 
curred  two  days  later.  In  the  interval  Davy  had  spent  one 
evening  with  the  family  under  Walt's  eyes.  She  had  been 
a  little,  uneasy,  but  WTalt  had  been  gay  and  poised — all  his 
usual  self — and,  if  anything,  had  made  the  visit  easier  for 
Davy.  She  could  see,  as  they  sat  there,  that  Walt  didn't 
dislike  young  Sayre  and  she  realized  that  when  he  had  said 
he  couldn't  believe  she  was  in  love  with  Davy,  he  had  said 
it  all.  He  wasn't  jealous  (but  he  ought  to  be,  if  he  loved 
her).  Why  wasn't  Walt  bitterly  jealous,  anxious?  Be- 
caitse  he  had  something  which  Davy  couldn't  take  from 
Mm.  That  was  it.  He  didn't  love  herself,  Esther;  he  loved 
his  embodiment  of  her.  And  such  love,  though  it  appealed 


130  THE   ANSWERER 

to  her  as  romantic  and  astounding,  and  though  it  did  move 
her  like  a  beautiful  passage  of  poetry,  was  unreal.  Just 
that.  It  made  her,  the  flesh-and-blood  her,  a  shadow;  the 
ghost  of  the  being  he  loved;  and  it  affected  her  like  a  hal 
lucination,  almost  made  her  skin  creep.  She  hated  it! 

She  must  tell  Walt  so  and  make  him  understand,  even 
if  to  do  so  was  to  shrink  herself  in  his  eyes.  After  all,  what 
ever  she  did  would  not  hurt  the  figure  of  his  worship  and 
if  she  were  only  flesh  and  blood,  she  couldn't  help  it  and 
she  didn't  want  to  be  anything  else.  It  had  been  very  wrong 
of  her  to  let  him  kiss  her,  put  his  arms  about  her;  but 
she  had  been  taken  unawares,  not  so  much  by  his  swiftness 
as  by  the  overpowering  pounce  of  her  own  imagination, 
visualizing  Davy  .  .  .  She  could  extricate  herself,  if  need 
be,  at  a  heavy  cost;  but  get  free  of  this  she  must,  even  at 
the  cost  of  that.  .  .  . 

The  next  encounter,  then. 

Walt  had  found  her  the  next  evening  burying  hei  face 
in  the  rich  clusters  of  the  purple  lilacs  and  they  had  walked 
down  the  road.  The  moist  serenity  of  the  May  twilight 
had  flowed  around  them  and  along  all  the  horizons  the 
pale,  beautiful  sky  had  shown  or  reflected  bands  of  tender 
color.  It  had  been  perfect  and  they  had  gone  a  half  mile 
or  more,  turning  into  the  upland  -oad  that  led  them  by 
the  schoolhouse,  before  either  had  spoken.  Then  Walt: 

"  I  love  you,  first  and  most,  for  you — for  your  Self.  You 
know,  don't  you?  that  something  in  me  is  yours  forever? 
It  is  so.  They  speak  of  love  as  if  a  man  were  the  lord  and 
master.  A  man  may  be  lord  and  master  afterward,  but 
that  is  not  the  beginning.  I  wonder  what  is  the  beginning? 


THE   ANSWERER  131 

The  first  awareness  comes  when  a  man  understands  that 
something  which  was  his  is  wholly  his  no  longer.  He  has 
moments  when  he  feels  .  .  .  seduced,  betrayed,  outraged 
.  .  .  and  all  the  time  he  is  in  an  ecstacy  over  it.  She  has 
done  this  thing  to  him  and  she  has  the  security  of  his  utter 
surrender  before  she  makes  her  surrender.  My  darling 
woman,  that  is  the  miracle  of  love;  you  have  wrought  the 
miracle.  A  miracle  ...  in  Fifth  Month  .  .  ." 

She  had  been  profoundly  stirred  by  his  exposition.  So 
much  of  it  was  true!  and  she  knew,  for  her  vital  instance, 
;  that  David  Sayre  was,  in  the  sense  of  Walt's  words,  her 
victim,  without  knowing  it.  He  never  would  know  it,  Davy, 
for  he  was  too  ordinarily  masculine  ever  quite  to  under 
stand  what  had  happened  to  him,  emotionally.  Men  didn't, 
except  this  one  walking  with  her.  She  considered.  She 
had  decided  that  this  great  emotion  which  had  come  to 
him  had  made  Walt  unseeing.  He  could  no  longer  pene 
trate  her  thoughts,  easily,  lightly,  as  of  old.  But  in  the 
light  of  what  he  was  saying  she  thought  she  understood 
him  even  better.  All  his  clear  penetration  was,  for  the 
hour,  withdrawn  from  everything  outside  and  focussed  on 
himself.  Where  he  had  been  used  to  read  the  feelings  of 
other  people  he  now  needed  all  his  faculty  to  read  his  own, 
in  so  unprecedented  a  turmoil.  It  was  very  marvelous  but, 
somehow,  it  made  her  afraid.  He  was  abnormal — specially 
gifted  but  dangerously  gifted.  In  fact,  he  was,  in  one  way, 
altogether  too  feminine.  She  meant,  emotionally.  His  de 
scription  of  his  own  feeling,  so  extraordinary  in  its  insight, 
showed  that.  He  actually,  unaided,  understood  himself 
and  this  was  not  the  way  of  the  well-balanced,  usual  man 


132  THE   ANSWERER 

who  came  only  to  a  partial  understanding  of  himself  through ; 
the  aid  of  some  woman  whom  he  loved  and  who,  most 
important    factor,    loved   him.  ...  So    much,    unworded, 
Esther  Terry  grasped,  and,  unable  to  word  it,  she  felt  des 
peration  stealing  upon  her. 

"  Walt,  everything  you  say  only  proves  to  me  how  im 
possible  it  is  ...  I  do  not  love  you  and  I  know  I  cannot 
love  you.  I  know — more.  I  know  that  what  you  love  isn't 
me  at  all.  You  would  be  terribly  disappointed — wretched 
— when  you  found  out  .  .  ." 

"  Even  if  you  are  right,  or  partly  right — even  if  I  love 
you  and  more  than  you,  the  world  I  have  built  about  you 
is  secure,  safe!  "  he  exulted.  "  Say  it's  self-deception — • 
though  I  believe  every  lover  could  be  called  self-deceived. 
Self-deception  is  the  one  illusion  that  can  never  be  de 
stroyed." 

"  Then  it  does  not  need  me  to  save  it  for  you." 

He  tried  frantically  to  retrieve:  "  Oh,  but  it  does!  Life 
without  you  is  going  to  be  just  the  self-deception  and  noth 
ing  else.  Just  illusion.  You  are  to  make  the  reality!  Can 
you  know,"  his  voice  dropped  and  became  a  sound  of  ten 
derness  and  desire,  "  how  suddenly  real,  how  warm  and 
sweet  it  became  the  other  day  when  you  let  me  kiss  you, 
put  this  hand  on  your  shoulder?  Can  you?  .  .  ." 

She  had  had  to  stop  him,  force  herself  free;  her  breath 
had  been  coming  very  fast  and  her  head  had  burned  just 
back  of  the  eyes.  She  hadn't  been  panic-stricken,  not  that, 
but  the  time  had  come  to  end  ...  to  put  aside  the  thought 
of  shame  and  tell  him  at  any  cost.  .  .  . 

"  Walt!    I  must  make  you  understand.    I  don't  love  you. 


THE   ANSWERER  133 

I  won't  be  able  to.    And  I  do  love  David  Sayre.    Listen; 

I  have  got  to  prove  this  to  you,  I  know  that.    Well,  then: 

|  All  the  while,  the  other  day,  that  you  were  kissing  me,  I 
jfelt  it  was  .  .  .  Davy.  And  because  I  imagined  it  was 
j  Davy,  I — I  liked  it.  It  shames  me  to  tell  you  but  it  is 
^the  only  way  to  make  you  know  how  I  feel.  Please  .  .  . 

I 1  don't  want  to  be  thought  any  worse  of  than  necessary; 
I  didn't  do  that,  think  of  him,  deliberately.    Something,  the 
thought  of  him,  just  leaped  on  me,  took  me  unawares  .  .  . 
now  you  must  see!  " 

She  had  been  unable  to  keep  back  the  tears,  making  a 
hot  furrow  down  her  cheeks  and  misting  her  eyes  so  that, 
jwhen  she  had  felt  able  to  glance  at  him,  she  could  not  see 
jvery  well  the  expression  on  his  face.  But  she  had  under 
stood  well  enough  that  he  was  suffering  .  .  .  and  after  an 
agonized  interval  she  had  caught  his  toneless  words: 

"...  I  suppose  it  might  be  easier  if  I  could  understand 
jwhat  you  see  in  him,"  he  had  been  saying  and  she  hadn't 
|  missed  the  pathetic  appeal  in  the  very  tonelessness  of  his 
(utterance,  the  note  of  bewilderment,  like  a  man  blinded 
land  groping. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  see  in  him  " — and  that  had  been 
the  truth.  She  couldn't.  She  hadn't  the  words.  Any 
words  she  could  have  managed  would  have  made  it  seem 
very  small  ...  or  perhaps  almost  indecent,  shameful.  .  .  . 
What  she  felt  would  be  soiled  by  words. 

She  had  had  to  struggle  with  a  fierce  resentment  that  it 
should  be  so,  a  resentment  that  wanted  to  vent  itself  upon 
poor  Walt  and  hurt  him  on  Davy's  behalf  and  on  her  own, 
hurt  him  for  what  he  had  compelled  her  to  put  in  words. 


134  THE   ANSWERER 

All  the  while  she  was  talking  to  him,  rapidly,  this  struggle 
had  been  going  on. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  see  in  him  and,  anyway,  it 
would  be  useless;  it  is  a  thing  you  could  not  understand. 
There  is  selfishness  in  it — it  isn't  all  unselfish  like  the  feel 
ing  you  have  toward  me;  perhaps  it  is  a  feeling  less  fine 
but  I  am  sure  I  have  it  and  I  am  sure  it  is  the  full  meaning 
of  love  to  me.  I  think  you  are  not  quite  human,  Walt.  I 
don't  know  how  to  say  what  I  mean;  you  are  made  up  so 
differently.  Your  mind  works  like  a  woman's;  you  sense 
things;  you  used  to  sense  things  my  father  and  brothers 
couldn't;  now  you  sense  your  own  feelings  in  a  way  no 
man,  no  ordinary  man,  ever  does.  And  there  is  something 
— well,  noble — about  you;  and  I  love  it  without  loving  you. 
It  is  the  poetry  in  you;  it  is  what  I  love  in  passages  of 
Shakespeare  or  any  treasured  book.  But  that  would  never 
belong  to  me;  you  couldn't  give  it,  I  couldn't  share  it;  I 
could  bring  nothing  to  it,  to  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing;  I  feel  certain  you  were  made  for  something  great — 
some  great  accomplishment,  some  wonderful  experience; 
but  you  were  never  made  for  just  plain  love,  love  of  man 
and  woman  .  .  ." 

That  honesty  had  cost  her  a  good  deal.    She  had  had  to  > 
fight  against  a  cruelty  deep  within  her  and  her  voice  had 
faltered  more  than  once.    He  had  burst  out  in  a  harsh,  ugly, 
hateful  voice: 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  it!  You  think  I  am 
1  noble  '?  Made  for  something  great?  I  am  a  healthy  male 
animal,  and  I  have  healthy  male  lusts.  I  lust  for  you,  for 
what  you  can  give  me,  and  I  covet  your  eyes  and  lips  .  .  . 


THE   ANSWERER  135 

jind  you  tell  me  I  cannot  have  them.  Do  you  want  to 
Irive  me  mad?  for  you  may  do  that.  Only  " — she  had 
shrunk  back  and  he  had  stopped  the  reach  of  his  hands  for 
her,  stiffening  with  a  surprised  look,  as  if  the  knife  of  her 
words  had  just  reached  his  heart — "  only  I  ..." 

Silence.    Then,  in  a  piteous  accent: 

"  It  has  all  been  such  a  mistake.  The  thought  of  love 
came  first.  There  is  a  curse  on  any  man  who  thinks.  I 
will  never  think  again;  I  will  live  to  feel.  Forgive  me.  It 
[was  a  mistake  to  try  to  make  a  beautiful  world,  built 
;around  a  thought.  A  man  might  better  never  have  lived 
than  to  do  anything  so  foolish.  Let  him  feel,  and  keep  to 
the  world  he  is  born  in." 

She  had  waited. 

"  And  now,  when  I  do  feel,  it  comes  too  late.    Too  late 

because  your  feeling  has  gone  out  to  another,  but  too  late, 

:  anyway,  because  you  would  rightly  enough  distrust  my  ar- 

jrived-at  feeling.     And  I  know  what  I  lose — know  I  shall 

|  never  have  it  back,  know  it  will  never  come  again." 

She  had  had  in  that  instant  a  complete  vision  of  what  she 
was  losing  (for  she  didn't  deny  she  had  lost  something, 
though  feeling  it  was  not  a  thing  that  she  could  have  kept 
or  that  could  ever  have  been  truly  hers).  For  a  moment 
the  sacrifice  had  seemed  very  heavy;  not  many  women  had 
offered  them  a  devotion  of  such  breadth  and  splendor.  In 
his  unselfishness  he  was  terribly  sincere.  And  his  out 
burst  about  lust  was  nothing  but  maddened  perversity;  he 
had  been  suffering.  She  ached  for  him  and  for  herself,  and 
then  a  slow,  wonderful  sense  of  triumph  had  invaded  her 
at  this  sacrifice  she  was  making  ...  it  seemed  somehow 


136  THE   ANSWERER 

to  bring  Davy  nearer  to  her  and  to  make  him  more  pre 
cious.  .  .  . 

Then  they  had  walked  back  together — it  was  still  quite 
light — and  once  he  had  reached  for  her  hand  and  she  had 
let  him  take  it.  He  had  held  it  a  moment,  his  own  seemed 
cold,  and  then  had  let  it  go.  She  had  left  him  at  the  gate; 
the  next  morning,  very  early,  he  was  gone  without  her 
seeing  him. 

And  that  had  been  all.    Yes,  all. 

She  had  relived  it  this  once  and  was  finished  with  it. 
The  memory  of  her  would  fade  with  him.  .  .  .  Dear, 
homely  Davy!  If  you  could  know  how  much  I  shall  love 
you,  how  much  I  can  bring  to  you!  .  .  .  But  you,  Walt, 
were  made  for  loneliness  everywhere;  there  is  a  place  in 
you  where  no  one,  no  one,  could  quite  enter.  You  showed 
it  to  me,  just  lifted  a  curtain,  but  I  let  it  fall.  ...  I  should 
like,  some  day,  to  see  you  again ;  to  have  you  for  my  friend, 
my  friend  and  Davy's  (you  would  be  his  true  friend,  too, 
you  know) .  And  now  .  .  .  good-by,  Walt  .  .  .  dear,  great 
lost  lover  .  .  . 

36 

.  .  .  And  afterward  .  .  . 

Long  afterward,  Walt  was  able  to  sum  up  all  that  hap 
pened  from  his  first  sight  of  Esther  Terry  on  his  return  to* 
the  farm  until  their  final  parting  in  those  two  commonplace, 
worn  words,  uttered  every  day  of  our  lives  and  always 
lightly,  the  comic  mask  for  our  deepest  griefs — the  two: 
words:  "  Of  course  .  .  ." 

Of  course  she  had  had  her  woman's  clairvoyance  unfail- 


THE   ANSWERER  137 

ingly  with  her.  Of  course  she  had  been  right — and  wrong; 
and  he  had  been  right — and  wrong.  Theirs  had  been  a 
misunderstanding  complete,  inavertable,  irrevocable;  im 
personal,  also;  rooted  not  in  character  but  in  sex,  or  rather, 
traceable  to  the  very  beginnings  of  life  and  as  mysterious 
and  inexplicable  as  the  Thing  which  impels  the  simplest, 
most  rudimentary  cell  to  split  apart,  becoming  two  whole 
cells  that  remain  disunited. 

He  was  able  to  see  this:  The  severing  proved,  of  itself, 
their  preexisting  oneness. 

Hence  Identity;  from  this  scar  of  experience,  a  knowl 
edge  of  all  lesser  experience,  a  perception  of  the  original 
unity  of  all  experience  and  of  the  underlying  common  Iden 
tity  of  every  living  soul. 

This  miracle  .     .  in  Fifth  Month.  , 


37 

What  had  most  dismayed  Walt  as  he  faced  Esther  Terry 
in  the  hour  of  his  return  was  a  strange  and  sudden  piece 
of  self-understanding  accompanied  by  the  birth  of  passion 
within  him. 

The  piece  of  self-understanding,  he  supposed,  might  come 
from  the  accident  of  his  having  met  first,  and  so  few  min 
utes  earlier,  Esther's  brother.  Between  brother  and  sister 
the  physical  resemblance  was  strikingly  complete.  He  had 
always  felt  for  young  Freegift  Terry  a  strong  physical  at 
traction  coupled  with  the  emotion  of  affection.  It  had 
been  something  in  the  boy's  face  ...  so  far  as  Walt  had 
been  able  to  give  an  inner  accounting.  Now  he  compre- 


138  THE   ANSWERER 

bended  that  his  feeling  for  Freegift  had  adumbrated  some 
thing  larger,  intenser,  and  something  now  fully  upon  him. 

For  with  this  curious  knowledge  which,  pleasant  or  un 
pleasant  had  distinctly  to  be  faced,  came,  though  separately, 
an  emotional  impact  that  it  was  not  in  him  to  withstand. 
This  was  the  birth  of  passion,  he  somehow  knew  even  as 
it  racked  him;  and  in  the  midst  of  an  unprecedented  storm 
and  stress  he  recalled  the  identifying  words  from  the  lips 
of  Herman  Melville:  "  There  is  a  stage  .  .  .  beyond  which 
the  affair  passes  out  of  our  hands." 

That  stage  he  had  arrived  at;  a  fundamental  change  had 
been  effected  in  him  and  with  what  was  immediately  ahead 
for  himself,  for  both  Esther  and  himself,  his  will  could 
have  nothing  to  do.  His  nature  was  at  the  mercy  of  an 
other's,  for  this  hour.  And  afterward?  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  there  did  not  seem  to  be  such  a  thing  as  the 
future.  He  supposed  that  was  because  he  was  actually  liv 
ing  in  it  and  it  had  become  his  present.  .  .  . 

He  had  felt  himself  a  clod,  at  the  sight  of  her,  for  her 
poise,  her  brightness  had  the  effect  of  making  everything 
else  inert  and  unalive.  He  had  felt  himself  a  prig,  for  he 
had  talked  in  his  utter  fatuity  to  Jenny  and  to  Sarah  Fur 
rier,  both  of  whom  knew  things  he  had  yet  to  learn  (and 
could,  perhaps,  being  a  man,  never  learn).  He  had  felt 
himself  an  utter  fool  ...  for  not  until  this  moment  and 
this  confrontation  had  he  comprehended  what  love  is.  And 
so  riving  was  that  comprehension  that  the  twin  desires  tore 
at  him — the  desire  to  show  her  his  infinite  tenderness,  the 
stony  wish  that  she  had  never  been  born.  .  .  . 

In  their  first  talk  he  had  controlled  himself  to  say: 


THE  ANSWERER  i39 

"Esther,  I  came  back  because  I've  discovered  I  love 
you."  That  was  near  enough  to  truth,  since  he  knew,  now, 
that  he  did  love  her.  Of  what  avail  to  have  said:  "  I 
came  back  because  I  thought  I  might  be  in  love  with  you. 
And  I  set  eyes  on  you  and  knew  it  to  be  so?  "...  No 
matter.  She  had  answered,  very  gently: 

"  Walt,  I  couldn't  ever  marry  you." 

Then  he  had  voiced  his  honest  incredulity.  He  couldn't 
believe  she  was  in  love  with  Davy  Sayre.  He  had  seen  too 
deeply  into  her,  in  those  weeks  of  living  under  one  roof ;  he 
knew  her  imaginative  quality,  her  tastes  that  the  young 
farmer  from  Smithtown  could  never  share.  There  was  noth 
ing  ambrosial  about  him;  and  her  clearsightedness  must 
tell  her— 

"  I  can't  believe  you  are  in  love  with  me!' 

She  wasn't  in  love  with  young  Sayre,  then!  Her  shift 
ing  the  ground  on  which  they  trod,  clearly  implied  it.  She 
was  appealing  to  him  for  proofs,  for  the  exact  honesty  that 
his  first  declaration  had  evaded.  In  a  rush  of  chivalrous 
feeling  he  had  met  the  appeal: 

"Oh,  but  I  am!  I'm  not  self-deceived— now.  .  .  .  The 
thought  of  love  came  first,  the  thought  of  you  afterward; 
but  one  led  surely  to  the  other.  And  then  I  began  to  suf 
fer.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see  what  you  have  done  to  me?  don't 
you?  " 

She  must.  Being  a  woman,  it  was  impossible  that  she 
shouldn't.  Being  Esther,  she  would  be  honest  with  him. 
But  it  was  natural  she  should  move  toward  admission  with 
a  certain  reluctance.  Along  this  new  path,  one  was  con 
stantly  skirting  one  knew  not  what  precipices. 


140  THE   ANSWERER 

"  I  can  see  you  have  changed,  somehow." 

Brave  and  plucky  girl!  His  heart  praised  her.  Now,  to 
test  her  advance: 

"  How?  " 

And  at  the  beginning  of  her  answer  he  had  heard  certain 
syllables  like  the  light,  dry  rattling  of  stones  on  a  treach 
erous  mountain  path;  and  then  without  warning  his  secure 
foothold  had  crumbled  away  under  him: 

"  You  .  .  .  met  some  one,  or  heard  something.  .  .  .  You 
thought  of  love,  then  you  thought  of  me  ...  wrong  way 
about.  ...  If  I  were  ever  to  love  a  man  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  came  to  him  from  an  immense  distance  over 
the  brink  beneath  which  he  lay,  for  the  moment  stunned. 

When  he  could  talk  he  had  disputed  her  contention  that 
the  thought  of  "  that  one  "  must  come  first,  the  thought  of 
love  coming  afterward.  Had  disputed  it  in  the  only  effec 
tive  way,  by  the  picture  of  where  he  was,  of  the  arrived-at 
condition,  the  reached  goal.  Only  by  means  of  such  a  pic 
ture  would  she  grasp  the  immateriality  of  the  road  he  had 
traveled.  What  had  he  said?  He  had  opened  with  an 
acknowledgment  that,  perhaps,  he  was  so  unlucky  as  to 
travel  alone.  ".  .  .To  be  different  is  unlucky.  But  it 
need  not  last.  .  .  .  We  yoke  young  people  and  mostly  they 
team  well.  I  thought  it  over — much.  And  I  saw  some 
thing  of  what  it  meant.  .  .  .  There  needed  to  be  passion. 
.  .  .  But  more  than  that  was  needed.  A  great  faith  in 
life  itself  was  needed.  .  .  .  That  would  last  because  it  was 
the  true  passion  ...  so  big  you  could  never  pass  beyond 
it  ...  enclosing  and  outreaching  the  very  stars!  .  .  .  real, 
because  self-created.  A  man  is  a  new  Adam  in  a  universe 


THE   ANSWERER  141 

of  his  own  fashioning  and  at  last  he  fashions  a  woman, 
really  from  himself,  to  share  with  him  all  its  loveliness  and 
beauty  and  grandeur." 

As  he  had  talked  the  words,  the  phrases,  had  welled  up 
out  of  him;  yet  in  the  act  of  uttering  them  some  deep  in 
stinct  had  remained  unsatisfied.  He  knew  already  what 
it  was.  It  was  the  artist-instinct  which  remained  obscurely 
baffled  in  his  effort  to  make  and  recite  poems.  And  its 
constantly-reasserted  presence  made  him  angrily  unhappy. 
What!  could  it  not  leave  him  alone  in  this  crucial  hour  of 
his  life?  could  he  never  for  one  solitary  instant  be  rid  of 
its  critical,  detached  gaze  and  its  imperious  demands?  He 
hated  it,  sitting  forever  in  a  corner  of  his  consciousness  like 
a  creature  you  could  never  banish  from  your  sight.  Now 
when  his  life,  or  his  happiness  (which  was  the  same  thing) 
depended  on  his  perfect  freedom  to  become  what  she  might 
require  him  to  become,  this  creature,  with  cold  eyes,  kept 
him  from  the  perfection  of  surrender.  And  it  did  this — 
how?  Merely  by  criticizing  his  efforts,  by  pointing  out  to 
him  the  ridiculous  inadequacy  of  his  words,  by  too  audibly 
declaring  to  his  innermost  ear: 

"You  fail  in  self-expression;  always  have;  always  will. 
You  cannot  make  her  know.  You  cannot  make  her  the 
perfect  surrender  you  wish  because  you  have  already  given 
me  a  lien  upon  you.  You  gradually  awoke  to  my  exist 
ence  in  your  house,  in  your  brain;  you  did  not  stifle  and 
crush  me;  and  you  cannot,  now.  Here  I  sit  and  appraise 
everything  you  think,  and  feel,  and  do;  here  I  sit  as  long 
as  you  live  and  (who  knows?)  it  may  be  longer.  I  will 
goad  you  with  a  merciless  goad,  and  you  shall  do  what  I 


H2  THE   ANSWERER 

impel  you  to  do;  and  the  greatest  thing  you  do  will  not  be 
feast  enough  to  glut  me.  In  this  inspired  love  of  yours 
you  are  making  your  first  and  most  desperate  attempt  at 
self-expression  in  the  one  form  in  which  the  millions  of 
men  achieve  it.  And  how?  With  words.  But  they  do  not 
use  words.  They  utter  a  series  of  sounds  of  conventional 
meaning.  Words?  You  fool!  All  that  you  can  say  will 
be  but  a  shadow,  not  even  edged  with  flame.  .  .  ." 

What  Esther  had  been  replying  had  come  as  an  echo, 
merely: 

"...  It  isn't  I  you  love,  but  what  you  .  .  .  build 
around  me.  Something  .  .  .  fashioned  '  really  from  your 
self/  ...  An  afterthought.  You  will  never  persuade  .  .  . 
that  way." 

It  was  not  the  echo  but  that  inner  sound  of  scornful 
laughter  which  had  stung  him  to  take  her  in  his  arms ;  and 
then  began  an  ecstacy  and  wild  delirium  of  the  senses.  To 
have  her  throat  under  his  lips  .  .  . 

38 

In  the  succeeding  days  that  had  remained  the  supreme 
moment  in  which,  for  however  small  an  interval,  he  had 
escaped  the  merciless  critic  within.  And  not  from  any 
sensual  standpoint  but  because  he  knew  she  could  give 
him  this  escape,  this  deliverance,  Walt  looked  upon  Esther 
as  priceless.  It  was  true  the  deliverance  came  through 
the  senses  but  he  was  clear  that  it  came  untarnished.  And 
the  possession  of  her  could  render  it  perpetual.  .  .  . 

This  revelation  gave  him  calm,  and  pure  happiness  in 
the  confident  expectation  of  assured  future  happiness.  He 


THE   ANSWERER  143 

looked  around  at — and  through — all  the  world.  Life  for 
those  incomparable  hours  was  like  looking  into  the  placid, 
penetrable  waters  of  a  wide  lake.  He  understood  at  last 
the  fable  of  Narcissus.  He  felt  as  if  his  true  self  existed 
only  as  something  mirrored  in  her  eyes — her  eyes  flecked 
with  golden-brown  like  still  waters  percipient  of  sunshine. 
In  a  dawn  of  splendor,  he  lived,  gay,  poised,  involved  in  a 
rapport  which  communicated  something  from  the  dead 
to  the  living  and  from  the  living  to  the  unborn. 

Are  you  stifled?  O  inner  critic?  Are  you  silenced,  ex 
communicated  at  last?  You  have  declared  that  I  shall 
never  know  the  satisfaction  of  achieved  self-expression; 
what  have  you  to  say  any  longer?  Have  I  answered  you? 
Yes,  I  think  I  have  answered  you.  What  you  called  a 
shadow  is  a  clear,  invisible  flame.  What  you  said  I  could 
not  compass,  I  have  compassed.  The  artist  in  me  is  satis 
fied;  I  have  risen  to  manhood,  am  become  one  with  my 
kindred  .  .  .  love  and  death  and  dust,  and  love  upspring- 
ing  .  .  .  and  shall  fulfil  the  cycle  which  is  alone  com 
pletely,  wholesomely  human,  and  therefore  alone  the  high 
est,  final  art. 

Art,  he  reflected,  is  like  life,  perpetuated  only  through 
the  intercession  of  the  senses,  yet  constantly  besought  to 
despise  the  senses,  like  children  who  should  be  entreated 
to  deny  their  own  mother  as  some  one  beneath  them.  For 
his  part  he  would  never  hereafter  make  the  mistake  of  as 
suming  that  because  a  thing  was  sensual  it  was  base.  One 
might  as  well  call  the  red  earth  degrading.  Nothing  was, 
in  itself,  either  coarse  or  fine;  in  what  it  brought  forth  all 
virtue  resided. 


144  THE   ANSWERER 

.  .  .  And  he  looked,  without  anxiety  or  rancor,  at  young 
David  Sayre,  come  over  to  spend  the  evening  at  the  Terry 
homestead.  He  felt  a  wide  friendliness  for  the  freckled 
face  beneath  all  that  thick,  unruly,  red  hair.  What  a  whole 
some  fellow  Sayre  was!  and  it  seemed  to  Walt  that  the 
young  farmer  was  healthier  and  more  wholesome  than  him 
self  in  the  simple,  usual,  important  respects  .  .  .  unimag 
inative,  but  for  that  very  reason,  unexacting;  like  the  locust 
tree  for  endurance;  a  stalwart  figure  whose  inertness  had 
the  effect  of  a  rude  but  magnificent  repose.  Slow-tongued, 
kind,  faithful  .  .  .  when  I  say  emphatically  that  he  is 
faithful,  Walt  asked  himself,  just  what,  to  the  curl  of  the 
last  planed  shaving,  do  I  mean? 

Well,  his  faithfulness  is  plainly  the  superbest  thing  he 
will  have  to  offer  any  woman;  it  will  not  be  restricted  to  a 
narrow  faithfulness  to  her  as  a  woman  but  will  employ  her, 
quite  unconsciously,  as  the  finest,  most  delicate,  cherished 
instrument  by  whom  and  through  whom  he  keeps  his  faith 
with  the  race.  By  her  and  through  her — through  the  union 
they  make  and  the  home  they  build  and  the  children  she 
bears  him;  what  they  sow  and  the  harvests  they  reap — he 
will  accomplish  himself  and  she  will  accomplish  herself. 
That  is  to  keep  the  faith.  .  .  .  And  I,  I— Walt  Whitman? 
And  you,  Esther?  Shall  we  not  do  likewise? 

You  are  to  make  it  possible.  Through  you  alone,  will  it 
be  possible  for  me.  Through  me  alone,  it  exults  me  to 
know  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  will  it  be  possible  for  you.  Because 
we  shall  be  more  fully  conscious  than  all  these  others,  these 
hundreds  and  these  thousands  of  fellow-men  and  fellow- 
women,  we  shall  make  a  deliberate  beauty  where,  momen- 


THE  ANSWERER  145 

tarily  groping,  they  achieve  none.  The  material  is  human 
clay?  Then  you  and  I  will  be  aware  of  the  ultimate,  per 
fected  shape  the  clay  is  to  take  under  our  fingers;  its  tran 
sitional  and  ugly  and  meaningless  shapes  will  not  obscure 
for  us  the  emerging  Design.  ...  Or  say  that  the  lives 
of  two  joined  together  are  like  to  a  piece  of  music;  then 
where  others  struggle  through  discords,  we  will  move  up 
ward  through  planned  and  cunning  modulations;  and  where 
all  those,  caught  in  a  web  of  half-tones  and  a  maze  of  un 
certain  intervals,  wander  at  times  without  an  Ariadne- 
thread  in  the  labyrinth  of  tonality,  we  two  will  sing,  will 
triumphantly  improvise,  in  resolving  keys  and  in  every 
mode.  .  .  .  Venite,  missa  est. 

The  great  curve  of  Dante's  line  swung  its  immense  arc 
over  Walt's  thought  as  he  looked  at  Esther's  head,  inclined 
forward  in  the  firelight.  Love,  that  moves  the  sun  and  the 
uttermost  stars  .  .  . 

39 

She  stood  in  the  day's  decline  close  to  the  bush  of  purple 
flowering  lilac,  putting  her  white  cheeks  deep  among  the 
clusters;  the  strong  yet  delicate  odor  of  the  blossoms  con 
stricted  his  throat.  The  walk  together  along  the  upland 
road,  their  nearness,  the  intimacy  of  twilight,  had  meant 
more  to  him  than  any  words.  It  had  been  the  severest 
effort  of  his  life  to  approximate  his  feeling  at  that  hour  in 
any  words. 

"  I  love  you,  first  and  most,  for  you — for  your  Self." 
That  had  been  the  first,  firmly-sounded  chord  of  his 
frank  confession.    She  might  know  full  well  what  was  in  his 


146  THE   ANSWERER 

heart  to  say,  nevertheless  it  was  owing  her  that  he  should 
endeavor  to  say  it.  And  so: 

"...  The  first  awareness  comes  when  a  man  under 
stands  that  something  which  was  his  is  wholly  his  no  longer. 
He  has  moments  when  he  feels  .  .  .  seduced,  betrayed,  out 
raged  .  .  .  and  all  the  time  he  is  in  an  ecstacy  over  it." 

.  .  .  What  was  it  she  had  finally  said? 

All  he  was  declaring,  she  had  told  him,  only  proved  to 
her  how  impossible  the  whole  thing  was.  She  didn't  love 
him,  knew  she  couldn't  love  him.  He  didn't  love  her,  or 
what  she  felt  was  her  ("I  know  that  what  you  love  isn't  me 
at  all  ").  He  would  be  wretched  with  disappointment.  .  .  . 

No,  no!  Pass  over  all  that.  Pass  over  his  yielding  an 
swer  in  which  he  tried  to  face  with  candor  the  part  of  love 
which  is  self-deception.  Pass  over  their  words,  fugitive  and 
ephemeral.  Pass  over  .  .  .  pass  over. 

Pass  to  the  moment  when  his  short,  thick,  shaking  fingers 
had  touched  lightly  her  shoulder,  his  young  face  coming 
close  to  her  young  face  and  his  hungry  eyes  prisoning  those 
eyes  of  hers  that,  like  dappled  birds,  fluttered  and  strug 
gled  against  the  slightest  surrender.  Pass  to  the  instan 
taneous  escape. 

".  .  .  All  the  while,  the  other  day,  that  you  were  kissing 
me,  I  felt  it  was  .  .  .  Davy.  And  because  I  imagined  it 
was  Davy,  I — I  liked  it.  ...  Something,  the  thought  of 
him,  leaped  on  me.  .  .  ." 


"  Ye  know  that  the  Book  is  sealed  with  seven  seals  .  .  .  and 
it  hath  been  foretold  that  as  the  seals  are  opened  there  shall  ap 
pear  four  horses  with  riders  .  .  .  on  the  white  horse  rides  a  con 
queror,^  on  the  red  horse  rides  a  slayer  with  sword,  on  the  black 
horse  is  mounted  famine,  on  the  pale  horse  rides  pestilence" — 


THE   ANSWERER  147 

the  red  horse  and  the  black;  left  and  right;  slash  and  starve — 
"  the  immortal  great  do  not  find  their  sublime  fulfilment  in  sex'1 
— what  is  fulfilment?  Die  once;  begin  again — "he  is  ready  with 
the  gift  of  his  Self,  in  its  finest  flower;  but  the  gift  may  be  de 
nied  " — light  laughter  and  the  sound  of  a  savage  voice :  "  What 
then?  Why  .  .  .  religion,  or  lust,  or  the  muddy  river,  or  the 
ruthless  reach  for  money,  or  a  bullet  in  the  breast  in  battle,  or 
the  extreme  unction  of  the  all-merciful  sea!  What  then?  .  .  ." 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  jumble  of  voices  another  voice 
which  had  kept  reiterating,  with  something  nasty  and  men 
acing  in  the  soothing  quality  of  its  uninflectedness: 

"  People  never  know  it  when  they  are  going  insane. 
People  never  know  it  when  they  are  going  insane.  ..." 

Like  an  anodyne,  that  baneful  murmur;  a  cooling  mum 
ble  to  a  child  who,  all  the  while,  feels  himself  in  a  remorse 
less,  unrelaxing  grip.  Steady  .  .  .  steady;  this  isn't  going 
to  hurt  you.  And  all  the  while  it  is  hurting  you  .  .  .  anni 
hilating  you. 

A  senseless  part  of  you  goes  on,  in  a  silly  way,  all  the 
time,  behaving  on  the  whole  quite  naturally  and  inventing 
and  uttering  thoughts  and  tags  of  things.  You  suppose 
something.  Anything,  so  long  as  it's  out  loud. 

"  I  suppose  it  might  be  easier  if  I  could  understand  what 
you  see  in  him." 

You  don't.     It  wouldn't. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  see  in  him." 

She  means  she  won't  try.  Nice  little  lie;  can  be  minted 
more  satisfactorily  if  alloyed,  strengthened,  with  truth. 
So— 

She  can't  tell  you  what  she  sees  in  him  and,  anyway, 
it  would  be  useless;  he  couldn't  understand.  There  is  self 
ishness  in  it — it  isn't  all  unselfish  like  your  own  feeling 


148  THE   ANSWERER 

toward  her;  perhaps  is  a  feeling  less  fine  but  represents 
the  full  meaning  of  love  to  her.  And  you  yourself  are  not 
entirely  human  .  .  .  you  are  made  up  so  differently.  You 
sense  things,  your  own  feelings  too,  in  a  way  no  ordinary 
man  ever  does.  You  are  rather — noble — and  she  loves  that 
in  you  without  loving  you.  .  .  .  But  that  would  never  be 
long  to  her.  She  can  bring  you  nothing.  You  were  made 
for  greatness,  but  not  for  just  plain  love,  love  of  man  and 
woman.  .  .  .  Every  word  tests  the  alloyed,  minted  lie  which 
gives  forth  a  bright,  silvery  ring  of  a  "  working  "  truth. 
.  .  .  Minted  words,  minted  lies,  each  stamped  in  relievo 
with  her  profile  which,  head  slightly  lowered  forward,  he 
saw  gleaming  palely  so  close  to  him  in  the  Fifth  Month 
twilight.  The  head  of  one  of  those  goddesses,  beyond  the 
realm  of  truths  and  falsehoods,  whom  the  Greeks  had  wor 
shiped — goddesses  who  were  women,  too.  Expressions,  those 
goddess-women,  of  the  highest  art,  which  consists  in  the 
violent  dissonances  and  the  subtle  accord  of  living  .  .  . 
becoming,  being;  becoming,  being  .  .  .  endlessly  .  .  .  the 
passionate  ecstacy  of  the  senses  set  to  the  grave  rhythm  of 
the  heart.  .  .  .  The  sole  intercession  was  through  the 
senses. 

".  .  .  You  think  I  am  { noble '  ?  ...  I  am  a  healthy 
male  animal.  ...  I  lust  for  you,  for  what  you  can  give 
me.  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad?  for  you  may  do  that. 
Only—" 

A  tremendous  chord  of  agony,  struck  out  of  nothingness 
on  every  nerve  in  his  body,  stopped  him. 

"  Only  I  ..." 

Stammered.     Then  a  blank.     Then  a  peaceful  ebbing- 


THE   ANSWERER  149 

back  of  consciousness  with  the  complete  yet  quiet  com 
prehension  of  a  world  thrown  down.  Like  birth?  No,  be 
cause  birth  carried  with  it  no  such  awareness.  Like  death, 
in  which  an  awareness  ceased,  only,  perhaps,  to  be  born 
again.  One  died,  immediately  awaking  with  the  thought: 
Of  course  this  is  not  the  same  existence;  at  the  instant  it 
seems  oddly  familiar  but  that  feeling  will  vanish  after  a 
little  ...  of  course. 

How  did  one  go  on  talking  to  some  one  in  the  world  just 
quitted?  Oh,  yes!  One  made  a  strenuous  effort  of  mem 
ory  and  .  .  .  and  recaptured  the  lingo,  spoken  and  other 
wise.  And  doing  so  brought  one  gradually  but  all,  com 
pletely,  back — back  into  the  sad  world  of  May  twilights 
and  lost  lilacs.  Confess  you  recognize  your  surroundings! 
Confess  your  failure  to  escape  .  .  . 

"It  has  all  been  such  a  mistake.  The  thought  of  love 
came  first.  There  is  a  curse  on  any  man  who  thinks.  I 
will  never  think  again;  I  will  live  to  feel.  Forgive  me.  It 
was  a  mistake  to  try  to  make  a  beautiful  world,  built  around 
a  thought.  A  man  might  better  never  have  lived  than  do 
anything  so  foolish.  Let  him  feel,  and  keep  to  the  world 
he  is  born  in." 

And  cannot  escape  from.  And  .  .  .  little,  lifting  ray 
of  hope  out  of  nowhere  .  .  .  may  yet  come  to  a  knowl 
edge  of,  and  find  a  beauty  in?  Beauty?  Nothing  to  do 
with  happiness.  Nothing  .  .  .  except  as  it  might  kindle 
happiness.  You  had  to  keep  feeling,  feeling  ...  a  pure, 
widening  flow.  Alas! 

"And  now  when  I  do  feel,  it  comes  too  late.  Too  late 
because  your  feeling  has  gone  out  to  another,  but  too  late, 


150  THE   ANSWERER 

anyway,  because  you  would  (rightly  enough)  distrust  my 
arrived-at  feeling.  And  I  know  what  I  lose — know  I  shall 
never  have  it  back,  know  it  will  never  come  again." 

With  those  words,  the  last  that  had  been  uttered  be 
tween  them,  he  had  had  a  brief,  surprising  physical  sensa 
tion,  as  if  she  had  touched  him  with  a  finger — immediately 
gone.  They  had  walked  the  road  homeward  in  silence. 

Once,  clutching  and  unclutching  his  fingers,  he  had  felt 
something  warm  in  his  hand,  but  on  perceiving  that  he  had 
taken  hold  of  hers,  he  let  it  go. 

At  the  gate  she  had  left  him.  Standing  outside  the 
whitewashed  palings,  close  to  the  lilac  bush  tall-growing, 
held  by  its  mastering  odor,  he  had  looked  at  the  figure  mov 
ing  across  the  dooryard  on  which  the  old  farmhouse  fronted. 
A  great  star  drooped  in  the  western  sky  and  in  the  swamp, 
in  secluded  recesses,  a  shy  and  hidden  bird,  a  hermit  thrush, 
in  notes  bashful  and  tender,  sang  by  himself  a  song.  .  .  . 

40 

Once,  Paumanok, 

When  the  snows  had  melted — when  the  lilac-scent  was  in  the 
air,  and  the  Fifth-Month  grass  was  growing  .  .  . 

For  a  few  hours  the  oblivion  of  deep  slumber.  Waking 
shortly  after  midnight,  mentally  feverish  and  unable  to 
resume  sleep,  Walt  rose,  dressed  and  slipping  from  the 
house  entered  a  farm-lane  fenced  by  old  chestnut  rails  gray- 
green  with  dabs  of  moss  and  lichen.  Here,  in  a  forward 
April,  the  apple-tree  blossoms  fell  in  showers  like  delicate 
snowy  meteors.  The  scent  of  lilac  moved  softly  upon  the 
breath  of  this  May  night. 


THE   ANSWERER  151 

In  the  northwest  turned  the  Great  Dipper  with  its  point 
ers  round  the  Cynosure.  A  little  south  of  east  stood  the 
constellation  of  the  Scorpion,  with  red  Antares  glowing  in 
its  neck;  great  Jupiter  stared  in  the  east.  The  sky  was 
splashed  with  phosphorescence. 

When  the  moon  swam  into  view  she  imparted  to  the 
aspect  of  everything  on  earth  shimmering  and  shifting  color- 
effects  of  pellucid  green  and  tawny  vapor. 


Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking, 

Out  of  the  mocking-bird's  throat,  the  musical  shuttle  .  .  . 


He  remembered  a  summer  on  this  Long  Island's  shore 
when  he  had  come  upon  a  nest  in  some  briers.  Four  light 
green  eggs,  spotted  with  brown.  Every  day  the  he-bird, 
to  and  fro  flitting,  keeping  near  at  hand;  every  day  the 
she-bird,  crouched  on  her  nest,  silent,  with  bright  eyes; 
daily  himself,  the  curious  boy,  wary  in  approach,  careful 
not  to  disturb,  cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

The  song  of  the  he-bird,  praise  of  the  downshining  sun, 
fearlessness  of  day  or  night,  of  wind  or  weather,  while 
they  two  were  mated. 

One  sudden  day,  one  fore-noon,  when  the  she-bird  was 
not  crouching  on  the  nest  .  .  .  returned  not  that  after 
noon,  nor  the  next  .  .  .  never  appeared  again. 

All  the  rest  of  that  summer,  in  the  sourfd  of  the  sea,  at 
night  under  the  full  moon  and  above  the  sound  of  the 
lulled  sea,  flitting  from  brier  to  brier,  he  had  heard  the  re 
maining,  solitary  guest,  the  he-bird. 

The  song  of  the  he-bird,  an  imploration  addressed  to 


152  THE   ANSWERER 

the  sea-winds  along  Paumanok's  shore,  a  promise  that  he 
waited  till  they  should  bring  her  back. 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glistened, 

All  night  long,  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scalloped  slake, 

Down,  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 

Sat  the  lone  singer,  wonderful,  causing  tears. 

He  had  been  calling  upon  his  mate,  he  had  been  pouring 
forth  the  meanings  which  I,  the  lover,  know.  He  had  lost 
his  mate.  I,  who  have  not  enjoyed — how  do  I  know?  But 
I  do.  Perhaps  that  means  something.  I  have  treasured 
every  note.  Surely,  that  must  mean  something. 

Why,  then  a  child,  now  a  man  yet  by  these  tears  a  little 
boy  again — why,  once,  and  more  than  once,  crept  I  down 
to  the  beach,  silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending  my 
self  with  the  shadows,  searching  out  obscure  shapes,  listen 
ing  to  dim  echoes,  watching  the  white  arms  out  there  in 
the  breakers  .  .  .  white  arms,  tirelessly  tossing?  Why  did 
I  harken?  to  what  end,  O  my  little  brother  of  the  sky,  kept 
I  the  exact  memory  of  your  notes?  and  can  I  translate  the 
painful  burden  of  your  remembered  song? 

Soothe!  soothe!  soothe! 

Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind, 

And  again  another  behind,  embracing  and  lapping,  every  one  close, 

But  my  love  soothes  not  me  .  .  . 

The  moon,  as  to-night,  had  hung  low,  having  risen  late; 
the  moon  had  lagged  and  hung  low — perhaps  heavy  with 
love.  The  sea  had  pushed  madly  upon  the  land,  with  the 
untiring  urgency  of  the  lover.  The  solitary  singer  had 
seemed  with  his  cry  to  search  the  sea  and  the  moon  and 


THE   ANSWERER  153 

the  sky  for  the  shadow  of  his  beloved.    At  length,  the  aria 
sinking  .  .  . 

All  else  continuing,  the  stars  to  shine,  the  winds  to  blow, 
the  sea  like  a  fierce  old  mother  incessantly  moaning.  What 
an  inexpressible  ecstacy  came  to  me,  the  boy  with  his  bare 
feet  in  the  waves  and  the  wind  blowing  his  hair!  To  me 
.  .  .  there  must  have  been  love  long  pent  in  my  heart  at 
last  tumultuously  bursting  forth,  for  strange  tears  took  a 
way  down  my  cheeks  and  we  were  a  trio;  and  to  my  boy's 
soul  the  old  mother  Sea  kept  sullenly  timing  her  answers, 
hissing  some  drowned  secret.  I  heard  myself  also  mutely 
demanding  of  the  singing  bird  that  he  answer,  whether  it 
was  indeed  toward  his  mate  he  sang  or  mostly  to  me,  "  for," 
I  cried  in  my  heart  to  him,  "  I,  that  was  a  child,  my  tongue's 
use  sleeping,  now  I  have  heard  you,  now  in  a  moment  I 
know  what  I  am  for.  A  thousand  echoes  have  started  in 
me,  never  to  die!  " 

.  .  .  Odor  of  flowering  lilac.  A  sense  of  fixation  so 
strong  that  it  seemed  to  replace  the  fluidity  called  con 
sciousness  with  something  indelibly  graven,  tenoned  in 
granite.  A  slow  recession  of  everything  but  the  immediate 
moment  and  his  actual  surroundings.  The  stone  had  sunk 
to  the  bottom  of  the  pool ;  consciousness  began  to  flow  over 
it  with  now  and  then  a  little  swirling  on  the  surface  of  the 
stream,  marking  a  site,  a  submerged  obstacle  or  anchor 
age,  a  hidden  position.  Look!  we  can  just  see  a  ripple  .  .  . 
that  means  the  light  must  be  coming. 

Yes,  see — to  the  eastward.    Dawn. 

A  sound  of  footsteps.  Turning,  he  saw  young  Freegift 
[Terry  entering  the  lane. 


154  THE   ANSWERER 

"Ho,  Walt!     Where  away?" 

The  boy  carried  a  milking-stool.  Walt  waited  for  him 
to  come  up,  then: 

"  Say  my  good-bys  for  me,  Freegift,  won't  you?  " 

"  'F  course.    When'll  you  be  back  this  time,  Walt?  " 

"  Ah!     I'm  off  for  good  this  time." 

"Hold  on,  Walt!   .  .  .  Don't  say  that." 

Freegift  Terry  came  a  step  nearer.  A  knowing,  yet  timid 
look  was  in  his  eyes,  meeting  Walt's.  He  said: 

"She— she's  a  fool,  Walt.  She's  the  gol-blamedest 
fool!  " 

Walt  jack-knifed  with  laughter.  The  purge  of  it  helped, 
vastly  steadied  him. 

"No — no,  Freegift!  You  ain't  meaning  jest  that.  You 
.  .  .  wait.  Whatever  happens — you  and  some  girl  or  other 
— you  won't  feel  that  way." 

"  I  wouldn't  let  myself  care  for  the  best  girl  that  ever 
lived!  " 

"Boy,  it'd  all  depend  on  something  you  ain't  got  any 
control  over,  something  in  you  that  she'd  have  control  over. 
.  .  .  You  don't  believe  that,  no;  and  you  won't  believe  it 
then  any  more  than  now.  I  didn't  believe  it— and  I  may 
not  believe  it  some  future  time.  Jest  at  this  time,  that's 
how  I'm  explaining  myself  to  myself." 

"  Dave  Sayre— he's  nothing!  " 

"  Freegift,  I  guess  any  of  us  is  fifty  per  cent,  what  some 
one  else  makes  us  out  to  be." 

I  must  get  away,  thought  Walt,  moved,  as  he  stood  look 
ing  at  the  boy's  face,  which  was  altogether  too  like  .  .  . 

"  Well,  we'll  make  it '  So  long!  ' "  he  declared  aloud  and 


THE   ANSWERER  155 

heartily.     "  I  may  be  back;  I'll  write,  anyway.     Maybe 
you'll  hunt  me  up,  come  after  me." 

Freegift  Terry  dashed  the  milking-stool  to  the  ground, 
said  in  a  quivering  voice: 

"I'll  go  with  you!  " — but  catching  the  instant  negation 
of  Walt's  look — "  You  won't  .  .  .  you  don't  want  me  to?  " 

Walt  couldn't  speak;  could  only  shake  his  head,  wave  his 
hand;  and  in  another  moment  he  was  up  the  lane  and 
away. 

Away  where?  he  asked  himself  in  that  boy's  first  words. 
But  to  this  unscotched  question  he  still  found  no  answer. 
He  was  moving  west  on  a  road  which,  he  knew,  led  into 
the  Jericho  turnpike.  And  so,  if  he  kept  his  direction,  he 
would  be  coming  by  nightfall  to  the  outskirts  of  Jamaica. 
Was  he  going  back  to  Brooklyn  where  so  much  of  his  boy 
hood  had  been  spent?  Or  would  he  be  turning  north,  shortly, 
to  revisit  Huntington? 

Brooklyn  was  better.  He  thought,  with  a  thrill  of  pleas 
ure  that  surprised  him,  of  Fulton  Ferry,  the  magnificence 
of  the  harbor  seen  from  Brooklyn  Heights,  of  lower  Man 
hattan  walled  about  with  ships,  of  Broadway  and  its  stages 
and  the  oathbound  brotherhood  of  the  stage-drivers. 
Crack-o!  with  the  whip  and  the  large,  rude  jest.  A  boyish 
love  of  the  daily  adventure,  a  zest  for  crowds  invaded  him. 
Yes,  Brooklyn  and  Manhattan.  It  would  be  easy  to 
live;  he  could  set  type  in  a  printing  office.  That  would 
give  him  a  little  money,  enough,  not  too  much.  And  would 
take  only  part  of  his  time.  Then,  he'd  be  able  to  do  a 
little  writing.  It  wasn't  as  if  he  had  never  tasted  success. 
Why,  even  when  he  was  only  about  twelve  he  had  had  bits 


156  THE  ANSWERER 

in  the  Long  Island  Patriot,  and  a  piece  or  two  in  George  P. 
Morris's  fashionable  New  York  Mirror.  How  his  heart  had 
double-beat  as  he  watched  for  the  fat,  red-faced,  slow-mov 
ing  carrier  who  distributed  the  Mirror!  and  the  fine  excite 
ment  as  he  cut  the  leaves,  roughly,  with  a  finger  that  trem 
bled. 

Starting  The  Long  Islander  in  Huntington  had  been  most 
splendiferous  fun.  He  had  bought  a  good  horse  and  every 
week  had  traipsed  over  a  slice  of  the  Island  serving  his 
newspaper — giving  a  day  and  a  night  just  to  that.  The 
happiest  jaunts!  going  over  to  the  south  side,  to  Babylon, 
across  to  Smithtown  and  through  Commack,  getting  ac 
quainted  with  the  dear  old-fashioned  farmers  and  their 
wives,  stopping  by  the  hayfields  and  experiencing  a  hearty 
and  home-made  hospitality  everywhere;  then,  after  a  sup 
per  and  talk,  riding  away  in  the  dusk  through  the  scrub- 
oak'd  plain  so  perfumed  with  pine  and  the  balsamic  odor 
of  sweet  fern.  .  .  . 

Life  had  all  such  good  times  as  those  in  it,  too.  .  .  . 

Life?  why  life  was  living!  that's  to  say,  movement,  trans 
lation,  flux  .  .  .  but  not  just  the  flow  of  sensations,  either. 
It  was  finding  yourself  in  the  midst  of  that  incessant  flow, 
feeling  how  it  transformed  you  (never  two  hours  quite  the 
same  creature,  or  the  same  identical  substance)  and  sub 
mitting  to  the  constant  make-over,  though  with  friendly 
tusslings  and  a  good-natured  resistance.  There  lay  the 
fun;  there  wasn't  any  lesson  but  to  have  your  fun.  Ah, 
these  sulky  retreats!  these  wincings!  They  were  just 
worthless. 


THE   ANSWERER  157 

May-month — month  of  swarming,  singing,  mating  birds — 
the  bumble-bee  month — month  of  the  -flowering  lilac  .  .  . 

(Month  of  May  twilights  and  lost  lilacs.) 

And  then  my  own  birth-month.  The  lights,  perfumes, 
melodies — the  bluebirds,  grass  birds  and  robins,  in  every  di 
rection — the  noisy,  vocal,  natural  concert. 

Tympanist,  a  neighboring  woodpecker,  tapping  his  tree. 

A  while  since  the  croaking  of  the  pond-frogs  and  the  first 
white  of  the  dogwood  blossoms.  Now  the  golden  dande 
lions,  spotting  the  ground  .,  .  .  the  white  cherry  and  pear- 
blows  .  .  .  the  wild  violets  with  their  blue  eyes  looking  up 
and  saluting  my  feet  as  I  saunter  the  wood-edge  .  .  .  the 
budding  apple-trees  .  .  .  the  light-clear  emerald  of  the  wheat- 
fields,  the  darker  green  of  the  rye.  A  warm  elasticity  per 
vading  the  air  .  .  .  cedar-bushes  decked  with  their  little 
brown  apples  .  .  .  convocation  of  blackbirds,  in  garrulous 
flocks  gathering  on  some  tree., 

(Yet  the  saddest  loss  and  sorrow  of  my  life  is  close  at 
hand,  has  just  been  experienced.) 

A  typical  farmhouse  hove  in  sight.  Breakfast!  But  first 
I  feel  for  a  bath  down  there  in  that  wide  brook  behind  the 
shelter  of  those  drooping  willows.  Ridded  of  the  dust  of 
the  road,  fresh,  tingling,  with  no  memory  of  a  sleepless 
night,  and  a  boy's  morning  appetite,  so  I'll  be  welcome  at 
the  farmer's  table  and  good  company  to  pay  for  my  meal 
ing.  (I'll  offer  to  do  half  a  day's  work;  I'm  in  no  hurry; 
I'll  guide  a  plow  and  be  making  plans.) 

He  slipped  behind  the  trailing  screen  of  the  willows  and 
leafing  briers,  stripped  and  stood  for  several  moments  in 


158  THE   ANSWERER 

the  sunshine,  listening  to  the  gurgle  of  the  water  and  feeling 
a  medicine  in  the  sound.  Then  he  doused  himself.  Shock! 
as  the  cold  of  the  clear  stream  forced  the  breath  out  of  his 
body  .  .  .  shock!  and  lesser  shock!  .  .  .  How  good  this 
was!  oh,  good,  good,  good! 


END  OF   PART   ONE 


PART  TWO 
GULF  STREAM 


"  COSMOPOLIS,  or  chrysalis?  " 

Madison  Slocomb  laughed;  and  then,  struck  by  the  ques 
tion,  became  abruptly  serious.  He  gestured  lightly  about 
him  and  answered,  with  an  alertness  uncommon  at  the 
South: 

"  Who  can  tell?  She  is  Nouvelle  Orleans  and  she  has 
not  yet  decided.  Besides,  although  I  was  born  behind  her 
levees,  I  am  scarcely  more  than  one  of  her  stepchildren. 
My  father's  father  was  not  a  Louisianan,  nor  was  my 
father  native  here.  You  will  see,  Mr.  Whitman,  you  will 
see  after  the  shortest  sojourn  below  Canal  Street,  how  one 
may  be  irremediably  an  exile  in  the  city  of  his  birth." 

"  And  yet  you  would  import  me,  an  utter  stranger,  to 
edit  your  new  daily  newspaper?  Who  will  read  the  Cres 
cent;  who  will  buy  a  journal  conducted  by  a  Yankee  out 
sider  named  Walt  Whitman?  " 

"  Oh,  we  exiles — we  Slocombs  and  Hillhouses  and  Storys 
and  the  like  who  have  no  Latin  blood.  Besides,  the  num 
ber  of  us  is  growing  very  fast.  And  with  a  victorious  army 
back  from  Mexico  City,  General  Taylor  and  his  aides  in 
constant  circulation,  cotton  going  up  and  the  town  gen 
erally  overflowing  like  a  bursting  bale — " 

i59 


160  THE   ANSWERER 

In  succeeding  days,  loitering  along  the  galleried  streets, 
passing  the  shadowed,  tunneled  entrances  to  the  houses, 
Walt  thought  he  should  never  again  see,  as  he  had  certainly 
never  seen  before,  such  a  richly-colored  animation.  Not 
New  York,  not  many-hived  Manhattan  with  its  ship-fringed 
littoral,  compared  with  this  crescent  shore  diked  against 
the  muddied  Mississippi. 

New  Orleans  had  an  air  of  being  perpetually  en  fete  un 
der  a  canopy  of  blue  emblazoned  with  gold ;  if  the  day  dark 
ened  one  looked  instinctively  aloft,  expecting  a  shower,  or 
deluge,  not  of  water  but  of  confetti.  The  streets  were  full 
of  rattle — yes,  rattle  was  the  word!  though  by  it  was  ex 
pressed  not  metallic  sounds,  not  the  hive's  susurrus,  but  a 
combined  precipitated  effect  as  largely  upon  the  eye  as  upon 
the  ear:  Drif tings  to  and  fro  of  soldiers,  litters  of  the 
wounded  and  fevered,  the  bright  uniforms  of  officers  and 
the  glint  of  sunshine  on  scabbards  that  dangled  as  they 
strode  past;  faces,  dark,  bright,  easily  smiling  or  stained 
with  excitement,  and  complexions  that  were  blue-white,  pink- 
white,  faintly  yellowed,  ivory-toned,  turbidly-tinted  like  the 
roiled  waters  of  the  vast  river,  rose-brown  and  raw-coppery, 
polished-opaque  ebony  or  dull,  teaked  black. 

The  faces  of  contained  Yankee  traders,  of  wealthy  negro 
gentlemen  who  were  men  of  family  and  owners  of  slaves; 
of  indolent  Creoles,  French  ladies,  a  woman  of  the  camp 
followers,  a  religieuse  .  .  .  boys'  faces  bronzed,  mustached 
river  pilots,  African  masks,  thin-lipped  Spanish  countenances 
and  black-bearded  men  who  looked  like  very  much  younger 
brothers  of  the  demi-piratical  Jean  and  Pierre  Lafitte,  lost 
lords  of  Barataria. 


THE   ANSWERER  !6i 

The  levees  were  white  with  cotton  and  the  river  steam 
boats,  diagonally  wedged,  were  infested  with  a  race  of  steve 
dores  while  on  the  shore,  carts,  mules  and  blacks  resembled 
a  swarm  so  thick  that  one  perceived  movement  only  at  the 
edges.  Chartres,  Royal,  Bourbon,  Burgundy,  Dauphine 
streets.  Place  d'Armes  with  the  Cathedral  and  the  Pon- 
talba  buildings.  Patterned  wood  blocks  from  Belgium,  the 
ballast  of  ships,  paving  the  roadways.  Factors  Row,  the 
French  market,  and  the  Absinthe  House.  The  new  Opera 
House,  the  recessed  barroom  of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  bar 
room  of  acreage  rather  than  feet-square;  the  beautiful  ro 
tunda  of  the  St.  Louis  Hotel  and  its  wide  sweep  of  waxed, 
perfected  floor  in  the  magnificent  ballrooms.  .  .  . 

In  the  Place  d'Armes,  facing  the  open  square  as  it  seemed 
immemorially,  the  three  great  lions.  But  a  better  symbol 
of  the  present  was  a  thing  you  could  hold  in  your  hand,  a 
single,  spilling  cotton  boll. 


After  his  first  few  days  in  New  Orleans,  Walt  saw  little  of 
Madison  Slocomb.  The  merchant,  with  whom  he  had  struck 
a  match  and  an  acquaintance  in  the  lobby  of  the  Broadway 
Theater,  New  York,  was  affected  by  the  restlessness  of  the 
period,  nothing  more.  Carried  North  by  a  bit  of  business, 
he  had  taken  with  him  a  vaguely  cherished  and  sentimental 
idea  of  founding  a  newspaper.  Why  not?  Look  at  the 
Picayune  and  the  Delta!  They  had  sold  almost  in  bales, 
like  cotton,  read  everywhere  from  the  planters'  great  houses 
to  the  river  bank.  The  letters  of  Chaparral  and  other  war 
correspondents  explained  much  of  this  avidity,  no  doubt; 


1 62  THE  ANSWERER 

nevertheless,  people  now  hankered  for  the  news,  or  at  least 
for  the  newspaper,  as  they  hankered  for  their  cafe  lait  at  the 
coffee  stalls — would  hereafter  insist  upon  one  as  fully  as  the 
other.  Simple!  Besides,  the  price  of  cotton  was  going  up, 
up,  up  all  the  time.  Every  one  had  money.  ...  A  news 
paper  of  one's  own  was  a  special  hobby,  like  a  good  stable. 
Enough  if  it  paid  its  way  after  a  little;  it  needn't  make 
money.  Let  cotton  do  that.  .  .  .  Slocomb  had  been  might 
ily  taken  with  this  young  fellow,  this  Whitman — not  quite 
twenty-nine  yet,  with  experience  as  a  printer  and  writer; 
had  for  the  last  year  or  so  edited  the  Eagle  newspaper  in 
Brooklyn;  gave  him  $200  and  told  him  to  start  off  down  the 
the  Mississip'  and  he  was  as  good  as  his  word,  came  right 
here  and  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and  set  to  work;  tall,  with  a 
fine,  open  face,  gray  eyes  that  look  straight  at  you,  black 
hair  and  beard  and  easy,  square,  powerful  shoulders;  an 
upstanding  fellow  all  right!  Thus  the  pleased  merchant  to 
some  cronies  in  the  cool  comfort  of  one  of  the  Canal  Street 
clubs. 

Walt,  on  his  side,  was  more  than  satisfied  with  a  job  in 
which,  after  all,  nothing  more  was  expected  of  him  than  a 
routined,  capable  performance.  Nearly  eight  years  in  New 
York  and  Brooklyn,  years  in  which  he  had  constantly  con 
trived  to  rub  against  and  study  all  sorts  of  people,  enabled 
him  to  read  correctly  the  mind  of  his  employer.  This  was 
essentially  an  easygoing  soul,  this  chap  Slocomb.  And  I 
like  an  easygoing  soul  for  my  master,  Walt  declared  to 
himself,  with  a  candid  laugh.  I  am  probably,  yes,  certainly 
in  many  particulars,  a  loafer,  as  plenty  of  persons  have 
called  me;  it  doesn't  follow  that  I  am  a  slouch.  I  am  no 


THE  ANSWERER  163 

slouch  at  the  type-case,  for  example.  But  one  of  these 
typical  tramp  printers,  whiskey- fed  and  bible-backed,  I 
could  never  become.  Nor  one  of  these  peering,  desk-ridden 
writer-hacks  and  editor-hacks,  could  I  ever  become.  They 
will  have  to  plant  me  among  the  daisies  first. 

He  had  abandoned  his  desk  and  was  strolling  through  the 
iron-grilled  avenues  of  the  arrondissement,  the  old  Spanish 
and  French  city,  and  thinking  how  extraordinarily  unlike 
his  favorite  Manhattan  all  this  was.  He  missed,  though  as 
yet  not  badly,  the  jolly  group  of  congenial  spirits  who  were 
always  assembling,  afternoons,  at  Pfaff's  Broadway  place, 
grouped  about  the  long  table  extending  the  length  of  the 
cave  under  the  sidewalk,  drinking,  eating,  chaffing,  smoking. 
He  missed  the  Broadway  omnibuses  and  their  riproaring 
drivers;  most  of  all  he  missed  the  Fulton  Ferry.  ...  I 
must  quit  this  mood  of  comparison,  he  thought,  or  I'll  work 
myself  into  a  state  of  fancied  mournfulness  in  which  I'll 
have  no  true  perception  of  the  new  things  all  around  me, 
things  and  people  different,  curious  and  full  of  discoveries 
for  me,  if  only  I'll  make  myself  eligible  to  know  them.  And 
I  want  to  know;  I  guess  that  is  all  I  want,  presently. 

Then,  which?  For  there  are  in  all  New  Orleans  just  two 
places  where  I  might  make  a  beginning  of  human  wisdom. 
One  is  the  levees;  t'other  is  the  barroom  of  the  St.  Charles 
or  the  St.  Louis.  Let  it  be  the  barroom  for  I  am  deathy- 
thirsty  and  hanker  for  a  cobbler  with  strawberries  and  snow 
topping  the  tall  tumbler  ...  or  a  few  swallows  of  the  mild, 
delicious  French  brandy.  .  .  . 

The  immense  barroom,  place  of  polished  woods  and  gleam 
ing  glassware,  resembled,  in  its  intent  activities,  a  roofed, 


164  THE  ANSWERER 

polite  public  forum.  The  number  of  the  inhabitants  drink 
ing  wasn't  many,  only  a  percentage  at  any  hour  or  minute. 
In  alcoves  men  sat  and  mingled  the  intermittent  transaction 
of  business  with  much  social  gossip  and  political  argument. 
In  a  corner,  or  more  accurately,  a  quarter,  an  auction  was 
going  on.  Walt  drifted  toward  the  cluster  of  some  dozens 
of  men,  mostly  frock-coated  with  broad-brimmed  hats,  who 
surrounded  the  auctioneer,  as  aloof  from  the  rest  of  the 
room  as  if  divided  from  it  by  partitioning  panels.  A  specula 
tor  for  falling  prices  was  being  sold  out.  The  auctioneer 
was  delicately  humorous.  "  My  client,  gentlemen,  wishes  to 
dispose  of  all  his  effects  as  he  has  engaged  to  take  Gineral 
Santa  Anna  on  a  b'ar  hunt  in  a  neighboring  parish."  The 
crowd  laughed  and  some  one  said,  in  a  clear  drawl:  "Let 
b'ar  eat  b'ar." 

Drifting  back  to  the  bar,  Walt  found  himself  alongside  a 
man  who  drank  his  brandy  in  uncritical  gulps.  Br-r-r!  He 
was  shivering,  for  all  the  warmth  of  the  day,  this  fellow ; 
must  have  ague;  his  teeth  chattered. 

"  Back  from  Vera  Cruz,  amigo?  " 

The  face  turned  toward  Walt  was,  for  all  the  chap's  dis 
comfit,  humorous,  valiant  and  winningly  Kelt.  A  sentence 
in  Spanish,  meeting  Walt's  headshake,  was  succeeded  by 
English,  brogue'd  despite  a  formal  manner  that  testified  to 
education. 

"  I'm  saying  'tis  a  deal  farther  than  True  Cross  I'm  com 
ing  from.  Your  name,  may  I  ask?  " 

Given,  and  the  Kelt  responded: 

"  'Tis    Jose    O'Donoju — D-o-n-o-j-u    which    was    wanst 


THE   ANSWERER  165 

D-o-n-o-h-u-e — saluting  you,  Mister  Whitman.  What'll  you 
be  drinking  with  me,  sir?  " 

They  loitered  over  an  exchange  of  glasses,  making  ac 
quaintance  rapidly  and  freely. 

"  Up  from  the  South  I  am,  Friend  Walt,"  explained  Jose 
O'Donoju,  whom  now  the  good  brandy  had  warmed  and 
steadied. 

"  The  South?  "  Walt  asked. 

With  a  rollicking  laugh,  the  other  commented: 

"  And  a  wee  bit  puzzled  you  are  to  hear  me  say  that. 
I'm  found  by  you  in  what,  I  doubt  not,  is  your  furthest 
South.  But  I  am  meaning  the  other  hemisphere  entirely. 
You  must  not  be  after  forgetting  the  world  is  round  both 
up  and  down  as  well  as  sideways."  He  gestured  comically; 
took  off  and  re-settled  on  his  head  a  gold-laced  military 
cap,  exposing  close-cropped  hair  which,  in  a  long  growth, 
would  perhaps  have  been  the  burnt  orange  that  had  evi 
dently  been  the  original  color  of  the  narrow,  short,  bleached 
strips  of  hair  covering  the  cheekbones.  His  lean,  tanned 
young  face  was,  on  the  whole,  aquiline,  adventurous  and 
aristocratic;  Irish  in  contours,  Spanish  in  the  delicate  ab 
breviation  of  sidewhiskers,  youthful  in  being  otherwise  so 
smooth-skinned  and  clean-shaven. 

"  Down  in  the  region  of  another  river,  a  slightly  lesser 
Mississippi,  La  Plata,  we  are  having  bloody  war,"  he  was 
declaring.  "  Your  little  excursion  to  Mexico  City,  if  you 
will  pardon  me  for  so  saying,  is  no  proper  comparison.  D'ye 
know  that  Montevideo  has  been  under  siege  for  five  years? 
but  of  course  you  wouldn't." 


i66  THE  ANSWERER 

"  I've  heard  of  Francia,  the  Paraguayan  dictator,"  Walt 
said  humbly. 

"  Who  has  not?  They  call  him  El  Supremo.  He  is  dead. 
You  should  meet  some  of  our  live  ones!  " 

"  What's  an  Irishman  doing  in  those  parts?  " 

"  Never  ask  an  Irishman  what  he's  doing  away  from  Ire 
land.  Fightin',  to  be  sure — what  else?  But  is  Jose 
O'Donoju  all  Irish?  Ah,  most  likely.  What's  the  strait 
betwixt  Jose  O'Donoju  and  Joseph  O'Donohue?  Although 
I've  an  ancistor  was  cast  ashore  in  a  bog  after  the  shipwreck 
of  Philip's  Armada;  he  was  a  Spanish  Mendoza,  a  grandee 
of  ould  Spain.  I  was  at  Trinity  in  Dublin,  then  at  Oxford 
before  I  grew  restless  and  spoilin'." 

"  Seems  to  me  I've  heard  tell  of  an  O'Donoju  in  Mexico, 
years  back.  Wasn't  he  the  last  Spanish  viceroy,  'bout  1820 
or  '22?" 

"Sure,  amigo  'tis  my  half-brother  you  mention;  but  he 
was  old  enough  to  have  been  my  uncle  and  we  saw  little  of 
each  other." 

"  Well,  Sefior  O'Donoju,  you  may  come  from  farther  but 
you  can't  be  any  more  of  a  stranger  hereabouts  than  my 
self." 

"  Is  that  the  way  of  it?  "  Two  brown  eyes,  lit  with  easy 
friendliness,  became  instantly  sympathetic.  "For  Dios, 
Amigo  Walt,  you  mustn't  be  lonely  in  a  town  where  I  have 
a  hundred  good  friends!  Come  with  me.  Do  you  know  the 
family  of  Fleurus,  or  have  you  had  Raoul  Dumouriez 
pointed  out  to  you?  No?  Have  you  been  a  guest  at  Casa 
Callava?  That  is  all  wrong.  I  live  to  set  such  wrongs 
right,  taking  care  to  enjoy  meself  the  while.  Allans!  " 


THE   ANSWERER  X67 

3 

So  it  was  that,  within  twenty-four  hours,  Walt  found  him 
self  as  completely  in  a  new  world  as  if  the  gallant  O'Donoju, 
bent  upon  mad  adventure,  had  whisked  him  off  to  another 
planet. 

This  was  a  world  truly  cosmopolitan  and  yet  incredibly 
provincial;  as  old,  in  effect,  as  Europe,  and  as  new,  in  fact, 
as  the  nineteenth  century;  a  world  which  was  founded  on 
lineage  and  went  on  by  means  of  dynasties;  and  yet,  con 
tradictorily,  a  world  that  toyed  with  devastating  ideas,  so 
that  the  young  people  in  it  seemed  to  Walt  like  children  dic 
ing  with  cubes  of  dynamite.  To  Jeanne  Fleurus,  the  leader 
of  that  cercle,  he  said  one  afternoon,  while  their  acquaint 
ance  was  still  merely  days  old: 

"  Mam'selle,  you  make  me  think  of  another  lady,  Pandora. 
She  opened  a  chest,  you  know — " 

The  Creole,  with  a  low,  running  laugh,  interrupted  him. 

"  It  was  a  powder-box,  filled  with  poudre  de  riz,  was  it 
not,  M'sieu'  Walt  WThitman?  La  Pandora,  she  wished  to 
powder  her  nose." 

"  It  was  a  powder  magazine,  from  what  I've  heard.  But 
that's  just  it!  You  must  '  amuse '  yourself,  as  you  say  in 
French ;  you  do  not  care  if  you  powder  your  nose  with  gun 
powder." 

"But,  yes!  I  do,  much.  Gunpowder  would  not  make  me 
more  becoming.  It  would  deface  my  looks." 

Walt  gave  her  the  open  consideration  and  admiration  of 
her  charms  thus  called  for.  Mile.  Fleurus  met  his  look  with 
a  smile  that  seemed  to  contain  nothing  but  a  disarming 


i68  THE   ANSWERER 

candor.  For  instance,  it  was  not  at  all  bold;  and  if  a  qual 
ity  of  assurance  was  behind  the  smile,  the  assurance  was 
perfectly  concealed.  What  Walt  contemplated  was  a  face  of 
the  type  preserved  for  posterity  by  painters  of  the  French 
court.  It  was  small,  classic  in  feature,  gay  in  repose;  it  had 
a  blended  air  of  dignity,  of  being  born  famous,  of  having 
been  bred  to  a  place  and  a  role.  The  differences  from  the 
Versailles  portraits  were  few.  There  was  a  rosy  tint  at  the 
margins  of  the  smooth  complexion,  a  certain  duskiness  of 
warm  color  under  the  shadow  of  the  masses  of  blue-black 
hair  and  under  the  eyebrows,  where  lids  sometimes  drooped 
over  the  intense  black  eyes.  Again,  there  was  the  mouth, 
sensuous,  innocent,  sweet. 

She  was  of  distinguished  beauty  even  in  a  society  which 
had  dozens  of  beautiful  Creole  women  quite  as  young  as  she. 
And  that  was  not  too  young,  for  there  had  been  the  years 
in  a  convent  school,  followed  by  a  year  or  two  in  a  school  or 
seminary  in  Richmond ;  nevertheless,  Jeanne  was  far  younger 
than  Walt,  younger  even  than  the  twenty-six-year'd  Jose 
O'Donoju,  frankly  her  lover  in  quest  of  her  hand. 

This,  so  far,  Jeanne  and  her  father  had  not  given  him. 
The  elder  Fleurus,  scion  of  the  French  regime,  was  a  stout, 
middle-aged  heritor  of  a  rich  import  business,  chiefly  in  fine 
wines;  a  jealous  father.  The  other  member  of  the  house 
hold  was  Jeanne's  aunt,  her  father's  widowed  sister.  Ma 
dame  Fleurus — she  had  been  wedded  to  a  cousin — seated  a 
few  feet  away,  was  examining  critically  the  gold  lace  on 
Jose  O'Donoju's  military  chapeau,  possibly  with  a  view  to 
copying  it  in  lace  embroidery  that  lay  on  the  table  beside 


THE   ANSWERER  169 

icr.  Now  she  handed  back  the  stiffened  cap  to  its  owner, 
inquiring  in  French: 

"  And  what  is  it  that  they  would  make  of  you,  with  this 
braid?  " 

"I?    I  am  a  general." 

"  So!  Pouf !  He  is  a  general  " — her  still  handsome  eyes 
directed  upward,  as  if  inquiring  of  heaven  or,  perhaps,  the 
cupids  posed  playfully  on  the  ceiling  of  the  sola.,  "  Of  what, 
pray?  Of  a  regiment  of  savages,  of  scarecrows!  " 

A  very  Irish  grin  appeared  on  the  General's  face.  He 
3owed  low. 

"  Madame  Fleurus  has  contempt  for  my  gauchos,  for  our 
horsemen  of  the  pampas.  She  belongs  to  the  Blanco  party. 
[  suppose,  Madame,  you  despise  the  great  Garibaldi  who  is 
assisting  us  Colorados — Garibaldi,  the  liberator!  " 

"  That  man?    Of  course.    Does  he  not  wear  a  red  shirt?  " 

Amid  general  laughter  O'Donoju  exclaimed: 

"  I  shall  order  him  a  uniform  from  Paris.  Then  you  will 
receive  him,  no  doubt !  " 

"  Jamais!  You  will  have  to  order  him  a  portion  of  the 
true  religion,  likewise!  " 

"  Religion,"  spoke  up  suddenly  a  white-faced,  spectacled 
young  man,  introduced  to  Walt  earlier  as  "  Mr.  Traubel." 
He  expressed  himself  with  difficulty,  yet  with  precision,  in 
English.  "  Religion  had  better  engage  itself  with  our  bodies, 
iest  our  souls  take  flight." 

Madame  Fleurus  looked  at  him  angrily,  but  Jeanne  pit-a- 
patted  with  her  little  hands. 

"How  good!     Oh,  if  Papa  were  only  here!     He  is  too 


i7o  THE  ANSWERER 

fat  and  contented.  Tell  M'sieu'  Whitman,  M'sieu* 
Tr-rouble,  about  your  great  man  in  Allemagne,  in  Gairmany, 
nom  de — what  is  his  nom?  Marzh?  " 

"  Karl  Marx,  Mam'selle.    A  liberator!  " 

"  Of  course!  Sefior — pardon  me,  dear  Jose! — General 
O'Donoju  has  his  liberator,  that  Garibaldi ;  M'sieu'  Trouble 
has  his  other,  this  Marzh.  M'sieu'  Whitman,  please 
choose!  " 

Walt  turned  with  interest  to  talk  to  the  young  German, 
and  found  to  his  great  satisfaction  that  he  was  talking  to  a 
revolutionist.  As  the  handsome,  crop-headed  Irish  youth 
had  been  his  first  acquainter  with  a  New  World  in  birth- 
throes,  so  the  pale,  earnest  disciple  of  Marx,  a  student  and 
traveler,  first  brought  before  Walt  the  spectacle  of  an  Old 
World  honeycombed  with  revolt.  Perpetually,  it  seemed, 
men  struggled  for  emancipation ;  and  Herr  Traubel  term 
inated  a  long  and  vivid  account  of  seething  Europe  with  a  i 
few  words  designed  to  place  in  perspective  what,  at  the  mo 
ment,  had  so  largely  the  appearance  of  senseless  confusion. 

"  Tyranny,  Mr.  Whitman,  assumes  as  many  shapes  as  the 
Old  Man  of  the  Sea  in  that  Eastern  fable.  It  comes  now 
from  above;  some  day  it  may  come  from  below.  For  cen 
turies  it  has  been  manifested  chiefly  as  political  tyranny. 
For  centuries,  at  least  from  the  time  of  the  English  Magna 
Charta  almost  to  the  present  and  even  in  the  present,  men 
have  struggled  to  throw  off  tyranny  in  its  political  shape. 
Ja  wo  hi!  though  with  the  establishment  of  these  American 
States  and  the  bloody  horror  of  the  French  Revolution,  I 
think  the  back  of  political  tyranny  was  broken.  It  re 
mains  to  crack  a  few  bones.  .  .  .  But  look!  As  soon  as  you 


THE   ANSWERER  171 

throw  off  this  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  this  thing  Tyranny,  in 
one  shape,  it  comes  back  in  another,  again  fastens  itself  on 
you.  The  new  form  of  tyranny  will  be,  is,  social — economic. 
Suddenly,  just  as  we  have  triumphed  over  political  tyranny, 
imen  make  inventions  in  an  unprecedented  number.  An  ugly 
black  monster,  with  an  engulfing  mouth,  appears  to  swallow 
men  and  women,  girls  and  boys,  by  the  thousands.  The 
factory!  The  worker  is  sucked  from  the  soil  and  penned 

,  into  cities.  The  loom  is  taken  from  his  cottage  and  he  must 
follow  it.  The  tool  is  wrested  from  his  hand  and  operated 

:by  a  flywheel,  his  hand  loses  its  cunning;  where  he  made  a 
pair  of  boots  he  does  nothing  but  stitch  soles.  His  work 
loses  all  variety;  he  loses  his  interest  in  it;  it  is  a  treadmill 
task.  He  owns  his  tool  no  longer,  his  home  is  gone,  and  his 
garden  and  scarcely  he  sees  his  own  family.  He  is  blind, 
harassed;  he  does  not  know  how  to  struggle  with  tyranny 
in  this  new  guise.  But  he  will  find  out  how.  It  may  take 
him  half  a  century,  or  a  century,  to  find  out  what  afflicts 

i  him.  It  may  take  him  then  as  many  centuries  to  throw  off 
this  new  shape  of  tyranny  as  it  took  him  to  break  the  back 
of  political  tyranny.  No  one  knows,  but — let  the  struggle 
begin!  " 

The  words  produced  a  powerful  impression  not  only  on 
Walt  but  on  the  others,  who  had  fallen  to  listening.  In 
especial,  Jeanne  Fleurus,  her  black  eyes  glowing,  exclaimed: 
"  Do  you  hear  that,  M'sieu*  Whitman?  And  you,  Jose 
amigo?  But  here  in  Nouvelle  Orleans  we  talk  of  nothing 
but  the  great  rise  in  the  price  of  cotton,  the  scandal  of  the 
Dumouriez  connection  and  the  big  Empire  we  are  to  create 
in  Texas  and  the  South  and  West.  Or  we  translate  French 


172  THE  ANSWERER 

verse,  or  render  M'sieu'  Poe  into  French.  And  Jose,  he 
gallops  on  horseback  among  cattleherders.  I  hope,  Jose,  you 
use  only  the  flat  of  your  sword  upon  them." 

"  And  in  New  York,"  took  up  Walt,  "  we  talk  of  nothing 
but  abolition  or  Booth  and  Forrest  at  the  Bowery  Theater 
or  city  or  national  officeholding." 

"  In  a  city  of  your  Massachusetts  State,  Lowell,  I  have 
seen  between  seven  and  eight  thousand  young  women,  mostly 
from  farms,  who  work  thirteen  hours  a  day  in  summer,"  said 
Traubel.  "  The  factory  bell  rings  at  half-past  four  in  the 
morning;  at  five  the  girls  must  be  in  the  mill.  They  get 
thirty  minutes,  at  7  o'clock,  to  go  to  their  boarding-houses, 
eat  breakfast  and  return  to  the  work;  in  thirty  minutes  at 
noon  they  must  do  likewise  for  dinner." 

"  And  the  pay?  " 

"  Five  cents  an  hour.  But  no  one  complains  regarding 
the  pay." 

"  At  any  rate,  it  isn't  slave  labor,"  offered  Jeanne. 

"  Mademoiselle  Fleurus,  if  you  work  like  that  you  do  not 
care  at  all  whether  you  nominally  own  your  own  body. 
Some  one  else  owns  your  soul.  The  true  slavery  is  the  ef 
fective  control  of  the  time  and  the  occupations  of  some  other 
person.  In  England,  Karl  Marx  found  it  worse,  or  perhaps 
I  should  say,  more  widespread.  Slavery?  Your  slavery  of 
the  blacks?  Of  course  that,  at  its  worst,  is  far  more  abhor 
rent;  but  very  often,  in  fact,  it  is  much  better  and  more 
human." 

Jeanne  Fleurus,  regarding  idly  her  rose-nailed  fingers, 
seemed  to  be  considering  something  and  as  Traubel  finished 
she  looked  up  at  Walt,  remarking: 


THE  ANSWERER  173 

"  M'sieu'  Whitman,  what  is  there  so  dangerous  that  you 
find  in  our  playing  with  ideas?  " 

The  direct  question  seemed  to  throw  Walt's  mind  into 
even  greater  confusion — or  was  it  chiefly  an  emotional  dis 
turbance  he  felt?  Mile.  Fleurus  prompted  him. 

"  You  know,  you  said  to  me  a  while  ago,  we  dabbled  with 
gunpowder." 

With  hesitation  he  responded,  at  last: 

"  Mam'selle,  all  my  notions  are  upset,  flung  in  the  stream 
and  floating  down  with  the  current.  I'd  always  supposed 
you  Southern  people  were  very  provincial  but  here  I  touch 
worlds  I  never  dreamed  of  in  New  York.  New  Orleans — 
we  think  of  it  as  aristocratic  and  old;  but  I  have  to  come 
here  to  learn  what  thousands  of  toilers  are  newly  exercised 
about.  Your  French  families,  inherited  customs,  leisure, 
wealth;  your  long  pedigrees — all  that  you  take  for  granted 
and  interest  yourselves  in  an  Empire  of  Texas  or  a  Republic 
of  La  Plata  or  the  prospects  of  bloodshed  in  Berlin." 

"  C'est  moi,  M'sieu'  Whitman!  All  that  is  Jeanne  Fleurus. 
My  Papa  would  groan  over  it,  were  he  less  placid.  Nothing 
makes  him  groan  except  anxiety  lest  he  may  not  quickly 
find  for  me  a  suitable  alliance.  In  the  meantime  I  won't  be 
ennui'd.  Pending  the  day  of  my  salon,  let  me  have  my 
cercle.  If  any  interesting  traveler,  like  M'sieu'  Trouble, 
comes  to  him«with  introductory  letters,  Papa  shall  bring 
him  home.  I  have  wrung  from  him  this  concession,  under 
threat  that  otherwise  I  shall  elope — " 

"  Avec  moil  "  exclaimed  Jose  O'Donoju,  placing  his  gold- 
laced  general's  cap  over  his  heart,  and  bowing  over  her  hand. 
Jeanne  laughed. 


174  THE  ANSWERER 

"  You  will  make  me  Queen  of — what  is  it?  of  Patagonia, 
eh,  my  General?  " 

"  I  will  go  back  and  liberate  Ireland  and  you  shall  reign 
at  Tara!  "  uttered  gallantly  the  voluntary  exile. 

The  young  men  made  their  adieux,  an  immense  relief  in 
the  face  of  Madame  Fleurus  having  almost  the  quality  of  a 
benediction  upon  them. 

"  I  have  a  double  errand,"  explained  O'Donoju,  as  the 
three  walked  along  St.  Charles  Street.  "  I  pay  my  court  to 
Mile.  Fleurus  and  together,  she  and  I,  we  bleed  her  blissed 
father  for  money  for  our  South  American  cause.  But  that 
second  thing  is  all  very  fair.  If  we  should  be  after  winning, 
he  is  to  have  the  yerba  mate  concession.  D'ye  gamble? 
No?  Too  bad.  I've  gold  that  is  burning  a  hole  in  me 
pocket.  Oh,  no,  'tis  not  gold  for  our  brave  Colorados,  'tis 
a  bit  of  me  own  money.  I'll  just  go  risk  it  while  the  feelin' 
is  strong  that  I  can't  lose."  He  took  leave  of  Walt  and 
Traubel  with  a  promise  to  look  them  up  on  the  morrow,  "  if 
me  winnings  don't  so  burden  me  I  have  to  keep  playin'  to 
reduce  thim." 

Traubel  and  Walt  moved  away  slowly  to  the  office  of  the 
Crescent,  where,  Walt  said  humorously,  "  I've  no  work  to 
do  except  be  handy  for  a  visit  from  the  owner,  Mr.  Slo- 
comb."  Finding  a  great  similarity  in  their  intellectual 
tastes,  they  exchanged  ideas  eagerly  about  Goethe  and  the 
philosophy  of  Hegel. 

"  There  is  a  comprehensiveness  in  Hegel  appeals  power 
fully,  I  may  say  irresistibly,  to  me,"  avowed  Walt.  "  I  don't 
read  German,  worse  luck,  and  have  to  depend  on  transla 
tions  and  summaries.  People  call  Hegel  cold,  a  callous 


THE   ANSWERER  175 

system-maker;  he  is  too  big  for  them,  I  guess  that's  all. 
Doesn't  it  come  pretty  much  to  this?  Hegel  says  we  can't 
have  goodness  without  badness — not  because  one  sets  off 
the  other  but  because  both  are  parts  of  a  whole.  Isn't  that 
it?  Tell  me,  tell  me!  " 

"  You  put  it  well  for  words  so  simple,"  Traubel  admitted. 
"  It -begins  with  what  he  called  the  paradox  of  our  self-con 
scious  life — his  Negativti'dt.  I  never  know  what  I  am,  but 
only  what  I  was  a  second,  a  minute,  an  hour  ago — yester 
day,  last  week,  last  year.  I  never  know  what  I  am,  all  by 
myself,  and  I  cannot.  Cut  me  off  from  my  fellows  and  what 
am  I?  Then  I  only  know  what  I  am  not.  I  am  not  any 
longer  any  one's  friend,  nor  any  country's  citizen,  nor  any 
man's  son,  or  brother,  or  father.  I  discover  I  am  nobody, 
and  I  never  was  anybody  except  with  reference  to  some  one, 
or  something,  else.  You  see?  " 

"Yes.    Yes!   .  .  ." 

"  Then — I  have  made  a  great  discovery.  I  have  no  self. 
It  is  only  a  part  of  something  larger.  ...  To  be  somebody, 
anybody,  I  must  be  more  than  merely  7." 

"  How  great,  fine!  Peter  was  the  rock  on  which  was  built 
a  church;  but  on  this  truth  can  be  built  something  greater 
than  a  church — the  solidarity  of  the  human  spirit,  the 
brotherhood  of  man!  "  Walt  was  ecstatic. 

A  vertical  line  in  the  forehead  followed  swiftly  the  smile 
on  the  pale  face  of  the  student  and  revolutionary  but  he  said, 
with  emotion: 

"  It  is  good  to  see  such  enthusiasm."    He  went  on: 

"  Now,  as  to  good  and  bad.  I  cannot  be  good  by  just  try 
ing  for  pure  goodness.  I  can  only  be  good  by  rejecting, 


i;6  THE   ANSWERER 

triumphing  over,  something  bad.  And  if  there  were  no  bad, 
I  could  not  be  good;  I  could  only  be  the  one  thing  that  ex 
isted  in  the  world.  No  bad,  no  good;  no  vice,  no  such  thing 
as  virtue.  This  he  calls  the  logic  of  passion,  of  suffering,  of 
struggle.  We  are  made  so.  We  see  all  the  contradictions — 
good  against  bad,  and  so  on — but  what  we  do  not  see,  un 
less  we  look  longer,  is  that  the  contradiction  is  our  way  of 
seeing  it!  Good  and  bad  are  the  two  faces  of  a  coin,  op 
posed  aspects  of  something  that  includes  both." 

"  Wait!  Answer  me,  and  let  me  see  if  I  grasp  it  rightly, 
fully.  ...  Is  there  a  soul?  I  mean  what  Emerson  calls 
the  Over-Soul;  I  suppose  what  most  men  mean  by  God — 
what  most  men  really  believe  in,  worship?  " 

"Yes!  " 

"  Is  it  exemplified,  embodied  in  occasional,  rare  men,  in 
any  one  man?  and  I  leave  out  all  question  of  the  divinity, 
or  partial  divinity,  of  Christ." 

"  Not  touching  on  the  question  of  the  divinity  of  Christ: 
Hegel  says  No!  No  one  individual,  by  himself,  exemplifies 
anything." 

"  Is  an  essence  of  the  soul,  or  the  Over-Soul,  to  be  found 
in  each  and  every  man — some  tiny  drop,  we'll  say,  in  the 
poorest,  worst?  " 

"Again,  No!" 

"  Emerson's  mystical,  of  course.  As  I  read  him,  he  has 
a  sort  of  sea  of  goodness,  or  fullness — an  illimitable  reservoir 
of  the  Over-Soul — ready  to  flow  into  the  heart  of  every 
man.  Like  having  water  on  tap  in  the  kitchen." 

"  That  is  hope,  or  faith.  It  is  romantic,  like  Fichte. 
Hegel  is  not  romantic.  Neither  is  he  vague." 


THE   ANSWERER  177 

"Then?  .  .  ." 

"  You,  in  your  life,  thoughts,  acts,  goodness  or  badness 
are  one  fleeting  aspect  of  that  Soul.  So  am  I.  So  are  all 
men  who  ever  lived  or  shall  live.  It  isn't  embodied  in  you 
but  you  are  a  facet,  a  glimpse,  of  It.  It  is  not  an  essence 
in  each  of  us  but  we  collectively  are  that  essence.  Like 
drops  of  water  that  make  the  ocean.  But  only  all  the  drops, 
and  only  when  knitted  together." 

11  What  a  grand,  sublime  doctrine,  gospel !  And  to  come 
to  our  New  World  from  that  Old!  I  swear  I  must  learn 
German  and  study  it.  But  here's  the  office.  Come  up,  do! 
.  .  .  Well;  but  look:  I  must  see  you  again,  soon  and  often. 
What  do  you  say?  Come  around  in  the  morning,  afternoon 
— any  time.  That's  right,  that's  right.  I'll  look  for  you!  " 

4 

Walt  found  Madison  Slocomb  waiting  for  him.  The 
owner  of  the  Crescent,  seated  at  ease  and  cheerfully  hum 
ming  an  air  from  last  night's  opera — Bellini's  "  Norma  "  had 
been  sung  at  the  New  Opera  House,  with  Grisi;  and  the 
hummed  air  was  "  Casta  diva  "—looked  up  with  a  smile, 
exclaiming: 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  neglected  you  a  good  deal!  I  mean, 
as  a  stranger  in  the  city.  As  an  editor,  I  purposely  neglect 
you.  Editors  must  have  elbow-room,  don't  you  think  so,  in 
order  to  edit?  " 

"  Gracious,  yes!  Takes  a  good  deal  of  room,  plenty  of 
seaway,  to  be  a  great  editor."  Walt  was  chuckling.  "  But 
a  puppet  can  be  made  to  dance  in  very  little  space." 

"  Well,  I  want  an  editor,  not  a  jumping-jack!     Seems  to 


178  THE   ANSWERER 

me  you're  doing  good  work.  I  like  the  paper;  so  do  my 
friends.  If  you  wanted  to,  I'd  be  willing  for  you  to  write 
political  articles." 

"Heaven's  mercy,  no.  What  would  a  Yankee  say  that 
you  Southerners  would  listen  to?  I  don't  believe  I  have  any 
politics,  just  now.  I'm  doubtful,  dubitating.  Beginning  to 
feel  like  a  new  boy  in  a  strange  school."  And  Walt  began 
telling  Madison  Slocomb  of  his  meeting  with  Jose  O'Donoju, 
afternoons  at  the  Fleurus  mansion,  the  topics  treated  by 
Traubel,  and  so  on.  Slocomb  listened  interestedly,  saying: 

"  You  are  lucky.  I  don't  know  this  Mr.  Traubel,  of 
course.  I  know  of  O'Donoju  and  I've  a  business  acquaint 
ance  merely  with  the  Fleurus  father,  the  importer.  We  new 
families  who  have  been  here  only  a  generation  or  two  do  not 
enter  the  Creole  society  except  we  marry  into  it.  But  the 
Fleurus  connection  is  one  of  the  oldest — pure  French,  ex 
cept  for  a  strain  of  Spanish  blood  in  the  early  part  of  the 
last  century.  Now  the  Dumouriez  family — between  you 
and  me  I  don't  call  Raoul  Dumouriez  anything  better  than  a 
nigger." 

"  What  is  the  *  scandal  of  the  Dumouriez  connection '  ?  " 
asked  Walt,  recalling  an  allusion  in  Mile.  Fleurus's  talk  of 
the  afternoon. 

"  Eh?  Oh,  you  mean  Raoul.  He's  taken  a  placee  since 
his  marriage  with  the  Antoine  heiress."  The  merchant,  see 
ing  Walt's  mystification,  went  on,  explanatorily: 

"  Raoul  is  a  sang-mele,  I  believe — negro  blood  half  a 
dozen  generations  back.  But  it  wasn't  for  that  I  called 
him  no  better  than  a  nigger,  but  because  he's  such  a  devil 
generally.  Aristocrat,  though." 


THE   ANSWERER  179 

"  Hold  on,  Mr.  Slocomb!  What's  a  placee?  And  I  don't 
understand;  do  the  people  here  keep  track  of  a  negro  strain 
half  a  dozen  generations  back?  How  do  they  distinguish?  " 

Madison  Slocomb  offered  Walt  a  cheroot.  "  Oh,  yes;  for 
got  you  don't  smoke."  He  lit  one  himself,  exhaled  leisurely, 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"It's — complicated!  First,  about  the  infusion  of  black 
blood.  That  has  been  going  on,  more  or  less,  of  course, 
since  the  very  beginning.  Now,  under  certain  circumstances, 
the  thing  is  almost  as  much  an  institution  as  slavery.  We 
have  negroes,  or,  at  least,  men  with  a  distinct  strain  of  black 
blood,  who  are  gentlemen,  who  are  slave-owners,  and  whose 
standing  among  gentlemen  is,  for  all  practical  purposes,  as 
good  as  the  best.  And  they  are  staunch  defenders  of  slav 
ery.  Some  of  them  are  very  rich,  thoroughly  well-educated, 
too.  Their  daughters  are  sent  to  Paris.  When  the  girls 
come  back  here — often  astonishingly  beautiful  women — 
they  look  up,  not  down  and  not,  usually,  on  their  own  level 
either.  Well,  a  white  man  cannot  marry  such  a  girl ;  I  mean 
a  union  can't  be  legalized.  Though  very  often  he  falls 
genuinely  in  love  with  her.  Her  skin  may  be  as  white  as  his 
own,  you  know.  ...  He  declares  his  affection.  She  ad 
mits  or  denies  her  liking  for  him.  If  she  admits  a  reciprocal 
affection,  she  refers  him  to  her  mother.  The  mother  makes 
all  the  arrangements  and  if  they  are  not  satisfactory  the  girl 
and  the  suitor  are  parted.  The  girl  may  love  him  but  she 
is  acquiescent  in  the  fashion  of  continental  Europe,  where 
she  was  educated." 

"  But  what  arrangements  does  the  mother  make?  " 

"  She  ascertains  the  man's  circumstances.    He  must  be 


180  THE  ANSWERER 

able  to  support  her  daughter  and  any  children.  He  must 
furnish  security  for  such  support,  and  for  her  support  should 
he  ever  leave  her  and  an  agreed,  sufficient  sum  for  each  of 
the  children.  And  '  support '  means  in  a  style  as  liberal  as 
she  has  been  used  to,  or  perhaps  better.  .  .  .  Suppose  all 
this  is  settled  satisfactorily.  Rooms  or  a  house  procured  in 
the  right  quarter  of  the  city.  The  couple  go  to  housekeep 
ing.  The  woman  goes  about,  as  before,  in  her  own  circle 
— and  it  is  wide.  The  man  moves  in  that  circle  and  his 
own.  They  go  to  parties  and  bals  masques  together.  She 
misses  nothing  she  has  been  used  to.  .  .  ." 

"  What  does  she  call  him?  » 

"  Her  '  husband.'  Why  shouldn't  she?  There  are  only 
two  differences  in  that  union  from  a  formal  marriage.  The 
first  is  the  omission  of  the  legal  ceremony.  The  second  is 
that  the  woman  does  not  enter  the  particular  social  circle 
in  which  her  husband  was  born  and  in  which,  to  some  ex 
tent,  he  continues  to  move." 

"  And  she,  I  suppose,  is  his  placee?  " 

"  So  she  is  called.  As  a  class,  these  women  are  affection 
ate  and  almost  without  exception  they  are  constant.  The 
unions  are  generally  as  happy,  often  happier,  than  mar 
riages." 

"  And  there  is  no  stigma?  " 

"  Oh,  none  whatever." 

"  But  what  is  done  when  the  man  comes  to  marry?  " 

"  He  may  part  from  his  placee  or  he  may  not.  If  he 
does,  he  makes  the  settlement  agreed  upon  before  their 
union.  His  affection  for  her,  or  her  affection  for  him  which 
stirs  him  with  a  feeling  that  the  separation  is  cruel,  may 


THE  ANSWERER  181 

lead  him  to  pay  her  over  and  above  the  agreed  sums.  Where 
the  man  is  making  a  family  alliance  rather  than  a  marriage 
for  love,  he  is  pretty  likely  not  to  part  from  his  placee  but 
to  support  both  establishments.  Men  who  become  strongly 
attached  to  their  placees  often  never  marry;  they  educate 
their  children  in  the  best  style  and  at  death  leave  them  all 
their  property." 

"  But  the  children?  " 

"  Why,  they  can't  be  said,  in  our  society,  to  be  badly  off. 
That  is  the  advantage  of  an  old,  long-established  society. 
The  negro  blood  has  been  still  more  thinned.  The  boys, 
enriched,  become  planters ;  if  they  marry,  they  marry  women 
with  at  least  as  much  white  blood  as  themselves.  Some  of 
the  girls  go  abroad  to  societies  where  race  distinctions  are 
less  marked,  but  most  of  them  stay  here." 

"  In  turn,  becoming  placees?  " 

"  Yes,  attenuating  the  negro  blood  still  farther.  So  now, 
what  with  this  and  the  carefully-pedigree'd  old  French  and 
Spanish  families,  you  see  how  it  is  possible,  as  in  the  case  of 
Raoul  Dumouriez,  to  estimate  precisely  racial  heritages." 

"  What  is  it  you  called  him?  Have  you  names  for  all  the 
degrees  of  blood?  I  thought  '  mulatto  '  and  '  quadroon  ' 
were  the  only  designations." 

"  Oh,  Lord,  no.  They're  elementary.  If  you'd  get  Ma 
dame  Fleurus — the  old  lady — to  talk,  you'd  hear  half  a 
dozen  others.  When  I  called  Dumouriez  a  sang-mele  I  was 
employing  the  nicest  distinction  we  bother  with.  That 
means,  or  may  mean,  that  he  had  a  great-great-great-great- 
grandmother  who  was  pure  black.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
don't  know  that  he  had.  Accurately,  it  means  he  is  one- 


i82  THE  ANSWERER 

sixty-fourth  negro  blood — but  the  only  way  I  know  it,  or 
you,  or  any  one  else,  is  by  the  tradition  of  his  pedigree. 
Physically,  nothing  whatever  to  indicate  it." 

"  But  he's  a  devil." 

"  Decidedly.  What  I  object  to  exclusively  is  the  brute's 
ugly  disposition.  What  the  Creole  aristocrats  object  to  is 
his  taking  a  placee  after  his  marriage  with  Mile.  Antoine. 
Or  rather,  the  Antoines  don't  like  it.  Before,  was  all  right; 
after,  is  not  quite  the  same  thing.  Not  nice."  Slocomb 
grinned,  lighting  a  fresh  cheroot;  he  stood  up,  saying: 

"  You've  nearly  made  me  forget  my  errand.  I  came  in  to 
invite  you  to  the  club  with  me  for  dinner.  Then  we'll  go 
to  the  theater." 

Walt  assented,  and  was  rewarded  at  the  show  at  the  St. 
Charles  by  his  first  glimpse  of  General  Zachary  Taylor, 
freshly  returned  from  the  wars.  A  short  play  was  followed 
by  the  performance  of  Dr.  Colyer's  troupe  of  "  model  ar 
tists,"  in  whom  the  interest  of  the  audience  obviously  cen 
tered,  for  their  groupings  and  solo  poses  were  received  with 
almost  boisterous  applause.  But,  in  fact,  the  theater  was 
crowded  with  men,  mostly  young,  uniformed  and  shoulder- 
strapped.  Old  Rough-and-Ready,  Zach,  the  hero  of  Buena 
Vista,  alone  among  the  officers,  so  far  as  one  could  tell,  wore 
the  clothes  of  civil  life.  Walt  studied  the  veteran  comman 
der  with  interest.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  been  just  about 
Walt's  own  age  in  the  war  of  '12. 

"  Looks  a  good  deal  like  Fenimore  Cooper,"  he  told  Madi 
son  Slocomb,  "  as  I  once  saw  him,  a  few  years  ago,  in  a 
courtroom  in  Chambers  street,  New  York,  back  of  the  City 


THE  ANSWERER  183 

Hall.  Cooper  was  suing  somebody  for  libel,  I  think,  or  else 
for  pirating  his  stories;  never  was  such  a  man  for  litigation 
— lawed  right  and  left." 

"  That's  General  Pillow,  over  there." 
"  Houseful  of  militaires.    Look  at  Zach  now!  " 
At  something  on  the  stage  that  struck  him  as  comical, 
General  Taylor,  jovial  at  all  times,  was  laughing  unrestrain 
edly.     Anything  like  conventional  ceremony  or  etiquette 
was  plainly  as  alien  to  him  as  to  Andy  Jackson.    His  large 
bulk  shook  and  the  many  wrinkles  of  his  sixty-four  years, 
creased  more  deeply  in  the  dark-yellow  face,  caused  Slo- 
comb  to  say: 

"  Blessed  if  he  doesn't  look  like  an  old  alligator!  " 
"  Instead  of  the  next  President  of  the  United  States!  " 
"  I  suppose  there's  no  doubt  the  Whigs  will  name  him," 
Slocomb  admitted.     "  And  with  Van  Buren  and  the  Free 
Soilers  bolting,  he  may  be  elected.     It's  a  joke,  though. 
Zach's  a  Louisiana  slave-owner;  besides,  the  dear  old  fellow 
doesn't  know  whether  he's  a  Whig  or  a  Democrat." 

"  Whom  are  you  Southern  Democrats  going  to  pick  to 
run?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  We're  going  to  take  Lewis  Cass, 
of  Michigan.  It's  Calhoun's  counsel.  He  says  we've  got  to 
take  Northern  men  from  now  on.  If  we  don't  win,  Calhoun 
says  call  a  convention  and  see  what  steps  we  had  better 
take  to  dissolve  the  partnership." 

"  You  mean — withdraw  from  the  Union?  " 
"  7  don't  mean  it,  nor  like  the  idea,  but  that's  what  it  will 
come  to,  I  guess." 


184  [THE  ANSWERER 

5 

The  next  day  being  Sunday,  Walt  followed  his  usual  cus 
tom  of  visiting  the  French  Market  in  the  morning.  Par 
ticularly  was  he  tempted  by  the  Indian  and  negro  hucksters 
— the  persons,  not  their  wares.  Specimens  of  healthy  man 
hood  finer  than  these,  he  was  thinking  as  he  watched  some 
of  the  Indians,  straight  and  supple,  couldn't  be  found;  and 
as  for  the  darkies  a  fellow  could  get  infected  with  enough 
merriment,  hearing  them,  to  last  him  the  week. 

He  sought  out  the  enormous  mulatto  woman  who  sold 
coffee  and  biscuits.  How  huge  she  was!  and  he  computed, 
from  what  he  knew  of  human  sizes  and  weights,  that  she 
must  weigh  fully  230  pounds.  Her  shining  copper  kettle, 
for  all  its  immensity,  was  strictly  in  proportion.  .  .  .  Such 
coffee  for  breakfast,  or  at  any  other  time,  was  outside  all  his 
experience. 

The  cup  holding  this  nectar  was  at  his  lips  when  he  caught 
sight,  over  its  rim,  of  Jose  O'Donoju,  a  few  yards  away. 
The  South  American  general  was  smiling  at  a  strikingly 
handsome  woman  of  color,  not  dark,  perhaps  a  quadroon. 
The  smile,  which  was  not  much  more,  Walt  judged,  than  a 
frank  expression  of  admiration,  appeared  to  attract  some 
little  attention.  It  was  not  returned,  and  after  a  couple  of 
minutes  O'Donoju  ended  it  with  a  slow  and  polite  inclina 
tion  of  his  head.  A  second  later  his  transferred  gaze  fell  on 
Walt  toward  whom,  producing  instantly  a  smile  of  entirely 
another  character,  he  hastened. 

"  Here's  the  turnin'  of  my  luck,  to  rin  across  you!  "  He 
came  up,  stood  still,  and  proceeded  to  turn  first  one,  then  an- 


THE  ANSWERER  185 

other,  of  his  pockets  inside  out  in  a  ceremonial  manner. 
"Behold  what  is  left;  I'm  meanin'  to  say,  what  isn't;  I 
fell  into  the  clutches  of  a  club,  on  Canal  Street  in  a  fine 
white  house.  'Twas  a  whited  sepulcher,  no  less.  There 
they  introduced  me  to  a  game  called  boston."  He  looked  at 
Walt  menacingly.  "  'Twas  not  Boston  you  were  by  way  of 
tellin'  me  you  came  from,  was  it?  " 

"  Hell,  no!  "    But  Walt  was  laughing. 

The  victim  of  boston  continued  his  plaint. 

"  With  me  last  peso  staked  and  sproutin'  wings,  who 
should  tap  me  gently  on  the  shoulder  but  Papa  Fleurus.  He 
!  drew  me  into  a  corner  and  in  dulcet  whispers  informed  me 
that  a  means  of  suddenly  growin'  rich  had  been  newly  dis 
covered.  I,  like  a  simpleton,  harkened.  And  what  did  the 
dear  old  embustero  propose?  That  I  give  up  the  sacr-red 
cause  of  liberty  and  help  him  and  his  fellows  in  a  crafty 
scheme  to  extend  their  Cotton  Empire!  " 

"  To  extend?  " 

"  Sure,  my  dear  Whitman,  all  the  wealth  of  the  planters 
and  all  the  skill  of  the  politicians  below  Richmond  is  being 
expinded  forty  different  ways  for  that  purpose.  Openly,  they 
can  but  talk.  There's  Jefferson  Davis  says  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico  should  become  an  American  lake;  some  one  else  is 
generally  raving  about  '  our  manifest  destiny/  It  sounds 
grand,  and  had  they  a  few  men  like  Bolivar  or  San  Martin 
or  me  countryman,  Bernardo  O'Higgins,  the  Supreme  Di 
rector  of  Chile,  I'm  not  saying  something  might  not  be  ac 
complished  ;  but  they've  no  one  better  than  fellows  like  Nar- 
ciso  Lopez,  Walker,  and  a  lot  of  lesser  riffraff.  They  will 
filibuster  in  Cuba  and  Cintral  America;  get  their  pawns  in 


1 86  THE  ANSWERER 

gun-running  scrapes  and  leave  them  to  be  stood  against  the 
walls  of  calabooses  and  shot.  Then  some  one  like  the  legal! 
light,  Judy  Benjamin,  will  pronounce  a  funeral  oration  over 
them,  a  thousand  miles  away,  in  the  shape  of  an  argument 
that  shootin'  them  was  unconstitutional  but  correct." 

O'Donoju  had  been  talking  in  an  undertone,  half-humor 
ous,  half-earnest,  as  he  and  Walt  sauntered  through  the 
market ;  now  as  they  left  it  the  Keltic  warrior,  passing  his 
hand  wearily  over  his  forehead,  said,  wholly  in  earnest: 

"  D'ye  know,  I'm  positive  if  I'd  make  mysilf  their  tool, 
Papa  Fleurus  would  consint  to  me  as  Mile.  Jeanne's  hus 
band.  I'm  tempted  sore;  if  it  wasn't  for  thinkin'  I  can  per 
suade  Jeanne  anyhow,  I  believe  I'd  strike  a  bargain.  Dios! 
how  my  head  aches!  I'll  be  leaving  you  now  to  get  the 
saint's  own  sweet  sleep."  With  a  friendly  wave,  he  was  off. 

Walt  felt  his  desire  to  view  the  sights  evaporate  as  he  fell 
to  thinking,  not  of  the  imperial  conspiring  O'Donoju  had 
talked  about,  but  of  the  phrase  he  had  used  about  believing, 
or  hoping,  he  could  "  persuade  Jeanne  anyhow."  For  all 
Mile.  Fleurus's  character  of  independence,  Walt  could  see, 
by  this  time,  how  difficult  it  would  be  for  her  to  accept  the 
gallant  Jose  without  her  father's  consent.  Probably,  con 
fronted  by  a  fait  accompli,  a  secret  wedding  or  a  runaway 
match,  Papa  Fleurus  would  acquiesce;  but  if  he  chose,  no 
longer  the  indulgent  parent,  to  be  stern  and  unbending,  then 
his  daughter  would  necessarily  become  an  exile  from  the 
only  society  she  knew.  Nor  could  the  roving  O'Donoju  con 
duct  her  into  any  other  acceptable  society,  unless  it  were 
abroad,  in  Paris,  say.  But  that  would  be  a  very  precarious 


THE   ANSWERER  187 

and  doubtful  enterprise.  There  were,  in  truth,  as  Walt  said 
to  himself,  just  two  grand  social  climaxes,  two  achieved  aris 
tocracies,  for  the  Southerner.  One,  South  Carolinian,  meant 
a  pew  in  St.  Michael's  Church  at  Charleston  and  the  right 
to  attend  the  balls  of  the  St.  Cecelia  Society;  the  other, 
Louisianan,  was  even  more  impenetrable,  like  these  sur 
rounding  swamps  and  jungles  in  which  the  live-oak  kept 
growing. 

Thought  of  the  live-oak  renewed  in  him  the  loneliness 
from  which  he  had  lately  been  suffering.  He  had  been 
struck  by  that  tree,  glistening  solitary  in  wide  flat  spaces, 
standing  all  alone  .  .  .  without  a  friend  or  a  lover  near 
.  .  .  standing  so  all  its  life  and  uttering  joyous  leaves  of 
dark  green.  Moss  hung  down  from  its  branches  and  its 
look — rude,  unbending,  lusty — had  made  him  think  of  him 
self;  but  he  acknowledged  to  a  wondering  envy  of  that  tree: 
How  could  it  stand  there,  uttering  joyous  leaves,  without 
the  presence  or  hope  of  a  friend  or  lover?  All  my  life?  I 
know  very  well  I  could  not.  These  past  years  I  have  en 
joyed  myself  mingling  with  the  crowds  in  Manhattan,  mak 
ing  friends  with  both  men  and  women,  tasting  every  experi 
ence,  I  should  suppose,  life  has  to  offer;  the  feast  has  been 
generous,  varied.  Is  life  like  that?  Is  it  a  delicious  ban 
quet  spread  for  epicures?  and  must  he  who  suffers  for 
genuine  sustenance,  nourishment,  go  hungry? 

Absently  he  looked  about  to  see  where  his  feet  had  led 
him.  St.  Charles  Street.  Here  were  the  mansions  of  the 
Creole  aristocrats,  here  and  on  Royal  and  Toulouse  Streets. 
Yonder,  a  little  way,  was  the  Maison  Fleurus;  across  the 


i88  THE  ANSWERER 

street  in  Casa  Callava  lived  connections  of  the  last  Spanish 
governor  of  Florida.  It  was  noon,  and  families  were  return 
ing  to  their  homes  from  the  service  in  the  Cathedral. 

Walt  became  aware  of  some  one  standing  alone  in  the 
shadow  of  the  arched  tunnel-entrance  of  one  of  the  houses 
across  the  street  and  adjoining  the  Callava  domicile.  A 
house  like  its  neighbors,  galleried,  with  delicate  iron  grille- 
work,  its  facade  merged  in  the  panorama  of  the  handsome 
street-front.  It  was  a  woman,  and  she  was  looking  intently 
upon  him. 

His  first  surprise  was  succeeded  by  an  extraordinary  sen 
sation  of  adventure.  She  was  scarcely  visible,  dressed  in 
some  black  stuff;  her  face  was  little  more  than  an  outline 
and  he  could  not  see  her  eyes  at  all.  How,  then,  did  he 
know  (as  certainly  he  did!)  that  he  was  the  sole  person  she 
was  observing?  An  inexplicable  intelligence  seemed  to  fasten 
itself  upon  him;  his  mind,  brought  sharply  to  the  place  and 
the  minute,  was  cool,  collected  and  precisely  planning  .  .  . 
or  else  exactly  obedient.  Which?  It  was  no  matter. 

Without  start  or  stopping,  he  continued  along  the  street 
for  some  distance,  then  crossed  leisurely  and  sauntered  back 
on  that  side. 

In  some  way,  he  knew  just  what  to  do.  As  he  drew  near 
the  house,  he  lowered  his  head  slightly  as  if  intent  on  some 
thought  unrelated  to  the  errand  of  his  feet.  Unhasting,  he 
approached  the  house  and  without  looking  up  passed  assur 
edly  into  the  entrance,  the  shadow  of  which  closed  behind 
him  like  a  silent  door  shutting  out  the  street. 

At  one  side,  as  with  all  these  houses,  was  the  staircase, 
of  great  breadth  and  polished  treads  with  easy  rises.  His 


THE   ANSWERER  189 

foot  was  on  the  first  step  when  he  felt  a  slim  hand  placed 
lightly  on  his  arm  above  the  elbow.  He  turned,  with  a 
whispered  "  Madame,  vous  voulez — ?" 

And  stopped,  trembling  all  over.  The  touch  of  her  fin 
gers,  the  perfume  that  seemed  to  emanate  from  her  dark, 
coiled  hair  .  .  .  like  flowering  jasmine  .  .  . 


Apparently  a  habit  of  taking  Walt  to  the  club  was  fasten 
ing  upon  Madison  Slocomb  and  as  Walt  relished  the  bouilla- 
baise  which  was  the  club's  special  dish,  particularly  when 
followed  by  redsnappers  stuffed  with  oysters,  he  sought  no 
excuses  for  a  hospitality  he  couldn't  conceivably  repay.  Nor 
would  he  let  the  one-sidedness  of  the  arrangement  lessen  his 
good  appetite.  To-night  there  was  to  be  a  conference  of  a 
political  character  which  Slocomb  wanted  to  attend,  though 
confessing  to  Walt: 

"  I'm  not  in  the  inner  circles,  politically,  any  more  than  I 
am  a  member  of  the  New  Orleans  aristocracy,  socially.  Still, 
the  planters  haven't  all  the  money  of  the  South  and  they 
know  it;  moreover,  they  can  be  friendly  without  condescen 
sion.  Stay  by  me;  you  may  see  a  high  light  or  two  and  you 
won't  spoil  any  real  secrets  because  they  won't  be  spilled  in 
our  presence." 

"  Celebres?  "  laughed  Walt.  "  I  am  tolerably  used  to 
them;  don't  stammer  or  swallow  my  Adam's-apple  in  their 
presence.  Perhaps  because  my  first  meeting  with  one  took 
place  at  an  early  age.  I  was  five,  and  was  one  of  a  group 
of  children  who  turned  out  to  see  the  corner-stone  laid  for 


190  THE  ANSWERER 

a  free  public  library  in  Brooklyn.  The  dignitary  who  was 
to  lay  the  stone,  helping  some  of  the  children  to  safe  spots, 
picked  me  up,  held  me  for  a  moment  to  his  breast  and  kissed 
me.  He  was  General  Lafayette." 

"  I  hereby  back  out  of  the  contest.  I  can't  promise  you 
any  one  of  much  more  than  local  importance,  I  guess.  No 
national  figure,  like  Calhoun  or  our  wrinkled  old  Zach. 
Hard  to  think  of  Zach  as  President,  if  he  should  get  elected." 

"  I've  met  Poe.  Cordial,  in  a  quiet  way,  dressed  well  but 
appeared  subdued,  perhaps  a  little  jaded.  When  I  was 
thirteen  or  fourteen — I  remember  'twas  a  sharp,  bright 
January  day — I  saw  on  Broadway,  just  below  Houston 
street,  a  very  old  man,  bent,  feeble,  stoutish,  bearded; 
swathed  in  rich  furs,  with  a  great  ermine  cap  on  his  head, 
almost  carried  down  the  steps  of  his  high  front  stoop  and 
tucked  in  a  gorgeous  sleigh.  John  Jacob  As  tor.  Then,  other 
times,  also  on  Broadway  I  recollect  Andy  Jackson  with  his 
upstanding  hair,  not  roached  but  like  a  heavy  mane.  Clay, 
Webster,  Martin  Van  Buren  though  he  hasn't  the  look  of  a 
celebre  in  the  least.  Had  a  glimpse  of  Dickens  while  he  was 
in  New  York.  William  Cullen  Bryant  I  feel  I  know — al 
ways  very  kind  and  sociable,  despite  what  people  who  don't 
know  him  will  say.  I  was  interested  to  meet  a  man  who 
comes  from  down  this  way  and  has  settled  in  uppermost 
Manhattan,  bought  an  estate  there;  a  man  of  most  winning 
manner  and  safely  successful,  I  judge,  after  many  years  of 
struggle.  We  met  only  the  once,  casually,  but  I'll  always 
remember  that  conversation;  he  was  interested  in,  was  an 
authority  on,  birds — wonderfully  observant  and  curious 
about  outdoor  life  as  I've  always  been." 


THE   ANSWERER  191 

"  What  was  his  name?  " 

"  Audubon— wasn't  that  it?  " 

"Not  J.  J.  Audubon?" 

"  That's  the  man!  I  remember  now.  John  James  Audu 
bon.  Has  done  a  book  of  marvelous  drawings,  published 
some  years  ago,  I  think  in  England,  studies  of  American 
birds — Birds  of  America  was  the  title." 

"  By  whiskey!  To  think  of  J.  J.  Audubon  coming  out 
on  top  after  all  these  years!  He  must  be  close  to  seventy. 
Why,  between  twenty  and  thirty  years  ago,  when  I  was  a 
youngster,  he  gave  me  my  dancing  and  fencing  lessons! 
Anything  to  make  a  living,  for  him,  those  days.  He  had  a 
good  property,  I  believe,  inherited  from  his  father,  French 
naval  officer  who  ha.d  estates  in  Santo  Domingo.  J.  J.  lost 
it  all  in  business  ventures  though  he  never  made  «ny  bones 
about  admitting  it  was  his  own  fault.  He'd  quit  work  any 
hour  of  any  day  to  go  hunting  or  fishing  or  just  tramping 
outdoors.  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  glad  the  old  fellow  has  struck  it 
rich." 

"  Don't  know  but  what  I'm  somewhat  like  him,"  Walt 
said  reflectively.  He  shrugged.  "  Perhaps  " — in  a  low,  un 
expectedly  serious  tone — "  I'll  strike  it  rich,  too,  some  direc 
tion  or  other,  yet." 

"  Plenty  of  time,"  offered  Slocomb  with  lightness. 
"  You're  not  yet  quite  twenty-nine,  and  Audubon  was  forty 
or  over  when  he  cultivated  my  wrists  and  ankles." 

They  rose  from  the  table,  moving  into  a  lounging  room 
where  the  first  person  Walt  saw  was  Jose  O'Donoju. 
O'Donoju  and  Slocomb,  meeting  for  the  first  time,  shook 
hands.  The  Irishman  said: 


192  THE  ANSWERER 

"  I've  been  meanin'  to  look  ye  up,  Whitman  amigo,  but  me 
hands  have  been  full  with  affairs  of  honor." 

Walt  didn't  catch  the  import,  but  Slocomb  said  at  once: 

"  Whom  have  you  been  dueling  with?    Are  you  hurt?  " 

"  Not  a  drop  of  Irish  blood  has  been  shed,"  proclaimed 
the  warrior.  "  On  the  other  hand,  or  hands,  as  the  case  is, 
some  excellint  though  faintly  tainted  French  fluid  has  been 
added  to  the  large  amount  saturatin'  Louisiana  soil.  Or 
perhaps  our  friend  Raoul  has  only  parted  with  the  drop  of 
black  in  him." 

"  Dumouriez!     You  haven't  been — ?  " 

"  I  have.  Not  wanst,  but  twice.  Dissatisfied  with  losin' 
only  about  a  half-pint,  he  sent  a  subsequent  challenge." 

"  But  what — ?  "  began  Walt  innocently  enough.  Slo 
comb  intervened,  saying: 

"No,  no!  Mr.  Whitman  doesn't  understand.  The  code 
is  that  if  a  gentleman  tells  you  he  has  been  engaged,  you 
may  ask  him:  With  whom?  if  he  is  hurt? — anything  of 
that  sort.  It  isn't  permissible  to  ask  anything  about  events 
leading  up  to — " 

"  Very  correct,  Mr.  Slocomb."  O'Donoju  executed  a  little 
bow,  from  the  waist.  "  Howiver,  it  happens  that  I  am  free 
to  speak  of  the  second  encounter.  The  hostile  Dumouriez, 
having  run  his  lift  hand  against  the  point  of  my  rapier,  a 
most  beautiful  piece  of  Toledo,  I  do  assure  you,  was  forced 
to  borrow  a  handkerchief  to  stanch  the  flow.  Mine  was 
asked  for.  Unfortunately,  at  that  juncture,  I  was  com 
pelled  to  use  it  myself  before  surrindering  it  to  his  second; 
and  at  this  gross  insult  he  challenged  me  for  the  following 
morning." 


THE  ANSWERER  193 

"  Oh,  ho-hoho!  "  Slocomb  and  Walt  were  helpless  with 
laughter.  The  duelist,  with  twitching  lips  nevertheless  in 
sisted: 

"  You'll  not  be  after  misunderstanding  I  hope.  The 
O'Donoju  intended  no  insult  to  his  late  adversary's  honor, 
but  was,  by  the  advint  of  circumstances  not  culminatin'  in 
a  sneeze,  absolutely  computed  to  resort  to  the  pocket-cloth 
and  blow  his  nose  instantly!  " 

"  Lord,  this  is  lovely.  All  New  Orleans  will  be  laughing 
at  Dumouriez,7'  declared  Slocomb,  with  difficulty  recovering 
his  aplomb. 

"  The  following  mornm',"  finished  O'Donoju,  "  Raoul  the 
Ruffled  carelessly  brought  his  right  hand  against  my  useful 
weapon.  Until  he  has  had  time  to  perfect  himself  in  the 
art  of  pulling  a  trigger  with  his  big  toe,  his  opponent  ex 
pects  to  be  at  liberty.  Have  you  dined?  Yes?  I  am  sorry. 
Au  revoir,  then,  gentlemen." 

"What  a  miracle,  that  man!  "  exclaimed  Walt  to  Slo 
comb.  "  He  fights  a  duel — rather  a  couple  of  duels — and 
then  jests  about  it.  The  way  to  live,  eh?  Fulfil  the  code 
the  world  demands,  but  don't  make  the  mistake  of  taking 
the  code  seriously!  " 

"  What  a  miracle  as  a  swordsman,  you'd  better  pro 
nounce!  "  was  the  answer.  "  Dumouriez  is  the  best  in  New 
Orleans,  probably  the  best  in  the  South.  And  ambidextrous 
— equally  good  with  either  hand.  He  must  have  been  quite 
at  O'Donoju's  mercy  and  your  friend  simply  played  to  dis 
able  him.  Wonderful!  " 

"  But  the  original  cause — ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly   involved,   near   or   remotely,   a   woman. 


194  THE   ANSWERER 

That's  why  one  may  not  inquire.  You  noticed  he  said  noth 
ing  about  that" 

They  joined  a  group  of  a  dozen  or  fifteen  men  sitting  and 
standing  in  an  irregular  circle.  An  unannounced  but  un 
derstood  formality  seemed  to  govern  the  little  assembly. 
First  one,  then  another  spoke;  the  rest  listened  attentively; 
after  any  individual  utterance  a  low  buzz  of  interchanged 
comment  prevailed  for  several  minutes.  At  the  sound  of  a 
new  voice  these  murmurs  would  stop  and  the  group  would 
give  him  audience.  Slocomb,  whispering,  indicated  to  Walt 
a  man  whose  face,  strongly-featured  but  withal  kind,  Walt 
felt  to  be  attractive  unless  it  were  for  an  excess  of  self-con 
fidence. 

"  Davis — Jefferson  Davis  of  Mississippi." 

"  Believes  in  the  conquest  of  Mexico,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  Oh,  we  all  do." 

"  This  man  over  this  side,  standing;  very  keen-looking, 
looks  smart;  smiling." 

"  He's  partly  Jewish,  a  brilliant  lawyer.  Benjamin's  his 
name.  Member  of  SlidelPs  firm.  Made  a  great  argument 
in  the  Creole  ship  case.  Judah  P.  Benjamin."  After  a 
moment's  further  study,  Slocomb  added: 

"  Fellow  sitting  next  to  Davis  is  the  new  Senator  from 
Illinois,  Stephen  A.  Douglas.  He  has  Southern  connections, 
embraces  our  point  of  view  generally  and  should  be  a  power 
ful  ally." 

Walt  and  his  companion  listened  to  the  talk.  Benjamin, 
taking  the  floor,  was  arguing  for  a  quiet  confidence  in  "  our 
future."  Why,  after  all,  worry  because  of  Van  Buren?  or 


THE   ANSWERER  195 

this  preposterous  Free  Soil  party?  or  a  possible  Whig  victory 
this  year? 

"  Gentlemen,  look  ahead.  Has  the  North  our  wealth? 
Has  it  our  secure  social  structure?  Has  it  an  educated  rul 
ing  class?  Has  it  a  philosophy,  political  or  otherwise?  Has 
it  our  economic  adjustment,  actual  or  potential?  Who 
would  answer  '  Yes  '  to  any  of  these  questions?  The  only 
industrial  system  at  the  North  is  a  chaos  from  which 
emerges  nothing  but  the  greedy,  systematic  exploitation  of 
white  labor — white,  mind  you — by  individual  cunning.  The 
prosperity  of  the  North  is  at  the  mercy  of  mere  trade,  traf 
ficking;  retail  shopkeepers  and  commission  agents.  The 
real  production  of  wealth  is  here  in  our  South.  Has  the 
North  any  single  controlling  commodity,  like  cotton?  Of 
course,  it  hasn't.  And  the  North  knows  it.  Our  ultimate 
development  may  be  retarded  but  it  cannot  be  prevented, 
for  the  final  guarantees  of  national  prosperity  are  in  our 
hands.  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  persuasively,  and  his  detached,  semi-legal,  dis 
passionate  review  made  a  clear  impression.  Stephen 
Douglas  followed,  regretting  that  the  Oregon  boundary 
should  have  been  compromised,  scowling  once  or  twice  as 
he  talked.  Walt  was  struck  by  the  way  in  which  the  scowl 
transformed  his  face  from  something  pleasant  into  a  coun 
tenance  dangerously  sinister.  Last  the  sitting  Davis  dis 
coursed  briefly. 

"  The  destiny,"  he  asserted,  "  is  a  non-political  empire, 
the  first  of  its  kind.  Mr.  Benjamin  has  drawn  suggestively 
the  outlines.  In  the  domain  of  politics,  we  inherit  that 


196  THE  ANSWERER 

powerful  safeguard,  the  doctrine  or  principle  of  the  rights 
of  the  individual  States.  In  every  other  respect  our  aspira 
tion,  wholly  legitimate,  must  be  imperial.  Our  real  founda 
tion  is  not,  as  our  enemies  pronounce,  slavery  with  a  super 
imposed  aristocracy  of  the  whites,  but  the  production  of 
economic  wealth  directly  and  increasingly  from  the  very  soil 
itself,  an  enterprise  constantly  enlarging  in  which  all  classes 
of  our  society  are  vitally  concerned  and  in  which  the  larg 
est,  the  overwhelming  number,  of  our  population  are  im 
mediately  engaged.  We  scarcely  realize  our  own  felicity 
and  fortune.  Everything  that  constitutes  the  South  to-day 
springs  from  the  ground  we  plant,  and  continue  to  plant. 
No  State  in  the  history  of  mankind  has  been  so  homeogene- 
ous,  so  singularly  unified,  or,  being  so,  has  been  so  clearly 
conscious  of  its  structure  and  its  purposes." 

A  steady  voice  from  the  listening  group  added: 

"  Or  so  prepared  to  carry  them  out!  " 

The  arising  murmur,  animated  and  applausive,  died  down 
at  the  sound  of  yet  another  voice.  The  speaker,  apparently 
a  planter  who  had  been  passing  through  the  room  and 
paused  merely  to  deliver  a  piece  of  news  meant  for  general 
distribution,  said: 

"  Gentlemen,  some  travelers  overland  have  just  brought 
a  report  of  rich  gold  deposits  in  California.  Discovered  in 
January.  At  a  place  called  Sutter's  Mill,  I  believe.  They 
say  a  rush  locally  had  begun  before  they  left.  Great  ex 
citement.  I  thought  you'd  like  to  know.  .  .  ." 

He  passed  on.    In  the  momentary  silence  some  one  asked: 

"  If  there's  really  gold,  the  Territory  is  liable  to  be  filled 


THE   ANSWERER  I97 

up  with  grabbing  Yankees,  isn't  it?    We  need  California!  " 
No  one  seemed  ready  with  an  answer. 

7 

In  hours  away  from  her  Walt  endeavored  to  define  for  his 
own  reassurance  his  relations  with  Floride  Dumouriez  but 
the  rapid  current  of  his  awakened  emotion  made  the  feat 
impossible.  Such  definition,  it  occurred  to  him,  was  like 
the  task  of  building  a  bridge  over  a  stream  too  wide  to  be 
arched  by  a  single  span — too  turbulent,  also,  for  the  sink 
ing  of  the  necessary  piers.  An  anchorage  in  that  river  of 
treacherous  rages  was  not  achievable.  He  loved  her,  yet 
was  repelled  by  her;  he  felt  certain  that  what  she  felt  to 
ward  him  was  neither  clearly  love  nor  hate  though  always 
and  unmistakably  passion. 

The  romantic-illicit  circumstances  of  their  first  meeting 
had  plainly  somewhat  to  do  with  this.  For  it  was  romantic 
to  have  felt  her  eyes  mysteriously  dwelling  upon  him  and 
to  have  suffered,  as  he  knew  he  had  suffered,  that  curious 
though  not  disagreeable  invasion  of  her  will.  Her  will 
which,  taking  possession  of  him,  had  ordered  him  to  take  no 
immediate  notice  of  her  vicinity;  so  that  he  had  walked  on 
and  by  the  house,  had  crossed  the  street  some  distance  above, 
had  strolled  back  and,  with  a  reasonable  air  of  mental  pre 
occupation,  had  entered  the  foyer  as  if  its  dark  invitation 
were  for  him  alone. 

In  truth,  he  had  reason  to  believe  it  was;  for  the  heiress 
of  the  Antoines  and  wife  of  Raoul  Dumouriez  felt  toward 
her  husband  no  passion  whatever,  nothing  but  a  cold  hate. 


i98  THE   ANSWERER 

This  was  visible  although  she  never  made  the  slightest  ref 
erence  to  his  existence.  Walt  could  not  but  admire  the 
presence  in  her  character  of  something  implacable  as  well 
as  something  unappeased,  perhaps  never  to  be  appeased. 
On  entering  that  mansion  he  saw,  at  no  time,  a  single  ser 
vant.  What  Mme.  Dumouriez  did  with  them  he  hadn't  the 
slightest  idea,  for  such  an  establishment  as  her  husband's 
required  dozens.  He  saw  no  one  but  Floride.  Though,  ex 
cept  servants,  who  was  there  to  see?  It  was  obvious  that 
her  husband  was  away  from  home  most  of  the  time — no 
doubt  he  dwelt  exclusively  with  that  placee  who  postdated 
his  wife  and  whose  elevation  into  favor  had  scandalized  all 
her  cousins.  These  cousins,  or  second  cousins,  for  they  were 
not  nearly  related,  were  all  she  had,  she  had  once  informed' 
Walt,  except  for  a  ten-year-old  brother  who  had  been  sent, 
after  the  death  of  her  father  and  mother,  to  school  in 
Charleston.  She  spoke  of  Hippolyte — that  was  hi:  name — 
with  a  tenderness  Walt  found  surprising;  he  thought  her 
eyes  filled ;  but  a  moment  later  she  said,  with  her  customary 
coldness: 

"  I  would  not  have  Hippolyte  in  this  house." 
In  this  house  where,  unless  it  were  for  the  vanishing  ser 
vants,  she  was  so  much  alone,  Walt  had  with  her  long,  ex 
quisite  hours.  Arriving  at  the  set  time — for  her  last  word 
to  him  was  ever  a  specific  instruction  as  to  when  he  was 
next  expected — he  would  enter  the  dim,  roofed  foyer  and 
feel,  as  he  turned  toward  the  staircase,  her  little  hand  laid 
delightfully  on  his  arm,  just  like  that  unforgettable  first  en 
counter.  Reenacting  the  scene,  he  would  carry  it  further 
with  his  whisper:  "  You  wish — ?  "  But  now  she  would 


THE  ANSWERER  199 

answer  with  a  low  command:     "  Kiss  me!  "    The  scent  of 
jasmine  would  be  in  his  nostrils.  .  .  . 

The  emotion  she  aroused  in  him,  as  he  clasped  her  in  his 
arms,  was  a  feeling  of  something  intoxicatingly  lovely  and 
ineffably  sad.  That  was  the  distilled  quality  of  what  she 
was  able  to  stir  in  him;  it  was  real,  like  the  fragrance  of  jas 
mine;  if  it  was  also  evanescent,  surely  the  waning  of  the 
spell  she  exerted  left  in  him  a  definite  sense  of  loss,  of  spir 
itual  bereavement.  For  the  spell  was  spiritual  and  this,  or 
the  sense  of  this,  was  what  distinguished  their  encounters 
from  every  ordinary  sort  of  intrigue.  Without  the  genuine 
pathos  he  felt  existent  in  their  relation,  that  relation  would 
have  been  no  better,  if  no  worse,  than  a  dozen  similar  affairs 
in  the  last  few  years,  affairs  perhaps  less  romantic  in  their 
inception  but  all  alike  in  their  inevitable  outcome.  Such 
affairs  were  agreeable,  exciting  episodes  but  neither  party  to 
them  misunderstood  their  underlying  commonplace,  which 
was  the  strictly  prosaic  thing  called  physical  attraction. 
Sex!  A  simple  function  disguised  as  a  series  of  accidents  to 
retain  the  invaluable  element  of  surprise.  But  Floride  was 
quite  apart  from  all  that. 

Apart  and  unshakeably  above;  and  her  instant  bestowal 
of  all  which  those  others  made  their  ultimate  surrender  was 
the  best,  the  indisputable  proof  of  her  aloofness,  her  mag 
nificent  superiority.  Put  in  words  her  attitude,  from  the 
very  first,  would  have  been:  "  I  can  give,  without  effort  or 
hesitation,  what  other  women  bargain  for  as  their  final  treas 
ure.  Take  me.  .  .  .  You  see?  that  costs  me  nothing.  I  am 
incredibly  rich.  You  don't  know  how  rich  I  am,  I  who  have 
had  none  to  give  to.  .  .  ."  Yes,  he  could  hear  her  saying 


200  THE   ANSWERER 

something  very  like  that  in  that  low,  distinct,  slightly  husky 
throated-music  which  was  her  voice. 

Floride!  .  .  .  But  she  had  the  beauty  of  magnolia  blos 
soms;  their  generosity  as  well.  .  .  . 

If  at  times  she  repelled  him  he  understood,  in  his  heart, 
that  it  must  be  his  recognition  of  the  fact  that  he  could 
never  make  her  completely  happy.  He  tried  to  solve  the1 
mystery  of  this  but  could,  as  yet,  only  get  as  far  as:  If 
she  were  less  Floride,  of  the  Antoines!  If  I  were  less  Walt 
Whitman!  In  the  profound  dissonance  which  made  the 
combined  chord  of  their  two  personalities  each  discovered, 
sometimes  apart,  sometimes  together,  an  inner  satisfaction 
impossible  to  explain.  Was  that  sex?  What  complex  func 
tion  thus  disguised  itself,  retaining  the  invaluable  element 
of  surprise? 

But  always  her  evident  passion  gave  the  tension  and  the 
pitch.  At  all  moments,  with  her,  away  from  her,  Walt  felt 
the  unvarying  vibration  in  which  her  conception  of  him  had 
been  formed;  was  and  would  be  sustained.  It  were  better 
to  be  hated  by  such  a  woman,  he  told  himself  with  sincerest 
conviction,  than  to  be  loved  unimaginatively  by  one  less  fine. 
Had  you,  of  flesh  and  red  blood  and  nerves  and  lighted 
reason,  rather  be  hated  than  be  loved?  Yes!  Floride,  Flo- 
ride!  ...  it  is  because  you  know  you  have  not  utter  hold 
of  me.  For  I  will  certainly  elude  you,  even  while  you  should 
think  you  had  unquestionably  caught  me — behold! — already, 
you  see,  I  have  escaped  from  you. 

.No!     It  wasn't  meant!     Floride!     Floride! 


THE  ANSWERER  201 

8 

From  time  to  time  young  Traubel  drifted  into  Walt's  office 
and  the  two  of  them  sat  and  talked  or  else  went  on  sight 
seeing  strolls  together  along  the  levees,  through  the  streets 
or  over  to  Lake  Pontchartrain  to  view  the  fine  sunsets.  Oc 
casionally  they  went  to  Mile.  Fleurus's  where  the  enjoyment 
was  always  multiplied,  rather  than  just  added  to,  by  every 
newcomer  who  could  talk  on  any  subject  whatsoever. 

The  revolutionaire  was  by  no  means  cut  off  from  his  coun 
trymen,  of  whom  New  Orleans  had  long  contained  a  respect 
able  number.  These  were  of  all  kinds,  from  several  families 
whose  ancestry  matched  that  of  the  best  French  and  Span 
ish  blood  in  the  city  to  small  shopkeepers  and  even  free  ne 
groes  of  whom  it  was  impossible  to  say  much  except  that 
they  bore  German  surnames.  Concerning  these  last  Walt 
expressed  one  day  curiosity  which  Traubel  was  able  to 
satisfy. 

"  German  peasants  were  brought  here  in  the  land  specula 
tion  you  call  the  Mississippi  Bubble.  Most  of  them  died. 
But  when,  in  1764,  the  Acadians  were  exiled  from  Nova 
Scotia,  they  were  sent  first  to  Haiti  and  then,  unable  to 
stand  that  climate,  were  transferred  to  Louisiana.  About 
the  same  time  a  few  thousand  Germans  founded  in  Haiti  a 
state  called  Bombardopolis  and  some  of  them,  for  the  same 
reason,  the  climate,  came  here  with  the  Acadians." 

"What  a  melange!  " 

"  No,  racial  intermixture  has  been  going  on  since  the 
world  began.  If  the  revolution  succeeds  in  Germany  as  it 
has  just  succeeded  in  France,  if  we  get  a  republic  or  guar- 


202  THE   ANSWERER 

antees  of  political  liberty,  my  country  will  become  a  State 
as  great  as  any  in  the  world.    But  if  we  fail — !  " 

"  Then?    Then?  " 

"  The  best  of  Germany  will  pour  into  America  for  some 
years  to  come.  At  home,  what?  I  wonder!  Perhaps  Prus 
sia  will  rule,  with  an  idea,  as  South  Carolina  seems  to  sway 
this  South.  Why  are  political  ideas  always  imperial  in 
their  tendency?  " 

"  The  idea  of  these  States  isn't  imperial,  it's  democratic." 

"  I  might  point  to  Texas,  but  I'll  only  observe,  instead, 
that  the  only  difference  between  the  imperialism  of  empire 
and  the  imperialism  of  democracy  seems  to  be  the  difference 
of  conscious  and  unconscious  tendency.  Where  the  em 
peror  conquers  for  selfish  reasons,  the  democrat  insists  on 
sharing  the  blessings  of  democracy;  both  expand  them 
selves." 

"  That's  growth." 

"  You  mean  it's  inevitable.  I  suppose  so.  But  I  think 
the  process  might  be  helped  by  candor."  Traubel  laughed 
at  an  occurring  example.  "  Imagine,  Mr.  Whitman,"  he 
requested,  "  England  announcing,  as  she  annexes  some  for 
lorn  region  at  the  ends  of  the  earth,  '  Excuse  me,  but  I've 
got  to  grow!  ' 

"  And  the  blending  of  races  that  we  see  going  on  here? 
What  do  you  suppose  will  be  the  result?  A  new  species? 
and  a  better?  " 

"  I  won't  guess.  Science  is  just  beginning  to  examine  the 
facts  with  plants  and  animals.  The  English  scientist,  Dar 
win,  seems  to  be  leading  us  to  the  brink  of  great  discoveries. 
Have  you  been  interested  by  the  mixtures  of  white  and  black 


THE   ANSWERER  203 

here  in  New  Orleans?  I  have,  and  by  the  precise  way  the 
French  people  classify  them." 

"  Slocomb  just  touched  on  it  one  day.  I  wish  he'd  told 
me  more." 

"  I  keep  a  notebook;  try  to  train  myself  in  scientific 
method.  It  is  full  of  cases  I've  heard  about  and  I  try  to 
discard  the  superstitions  and  exaggerations.  There's  so 
much  of  both,  I  find  conclusions  hard.  But  the  few  I  can 
reach  are  wholly — ach!  what  is  the  English  word?  not  '  dis 
appointing  '  exactly.  Jal  I  have  it — non-committal." 

"  But  Slocomb  told  me  of  a  man,  Raoul  Dumouriez,  who's 
what  is  called  a  sang-mele — one-sixty-fourth  negro  blood. 
That  may  mean,  probably  does,  that  he's  the  sixth  genera 
tion  from  a  white-black  union,  with  only  white  blood  in 
fused  for  certainly  over  a  hundred  years.  Slocomb  admitted 
Dumouriez  can't  be  told  from  a  pure  white.  Has  a  devilish 
temper  but  that's  not  peculiar  to  any  race." 

"  The  child  of  a  white  and  a  negro  is  always  recognizably 
a  negro.  My  notes  convince  me  of  that.  In  the  second  and 
later  generations  nothing  can  be  predicted,  nothing  at  all. 
The  individual  may  appear  to  be  entirely  white  blood,  or 
mixed  blood,  or  black.  He  may  have  a  light  skin  and  hair 
that  is  tufted,  or  a  black  skin  and  blue  eyes,  or  be  black  and 
have  perfectly  straight  hair,  or  be  completely  like  a  white 
except  for  the  negro  body  odor,  or  any  other  combination 
whatever." 

"  But  suppose  the  black  blood  becomes  negligible?  " 

"  Scientifically,  it  can  never  become  negligible.  Nor  could 
a  drop  of  white  blood  in  an  ocean  of  black.  A  hybrid  is  a 
hybrid;  unstable;  the  drop  may  show  itself  any  time." 


THE  ANSWERER 

"  Well,  but  practically—" 

"  What  is  that  word,  '  practically  '?  However,  I  know 
what  you  would  ask.  I  find  that  generally  one-eighth  negro 
blood  or  white  blood — a  black  or  white  great-grandparent — 
is  enough  to  make  a  perceptible  difference;  but  very  often 
one-sixteenth  is  noticeable  and  sometimes  even  less." 

Walt  stood  still— they  had  left  the  office  of  the  Crescent 
and  were  on  an  aimless  ramble.  Visibly  staggered,  he  in 
quired: 

"  Then  to  absorb  the  black  generally — obliterate,  with  few 
and  diminishing  exceptions  the  negro  physical  characteris 
tics — would  be  impossible?  To  reduce  the  black  blood  to 
at  least  one- thirty-second  would  take  five  generations — " 

"  In  which  those  with  black  blood,  or  lessened  black  blood, 
must  be  married  exclusively  with  pure  whites.  Are  you  a 
mathematician?  " 

"No-no!     My  two-and-two  generally  make  five." 

"  In  racial  mathematics,  one-and-one  generally  make  five, 
mein  Freund  Whitman !'  The  average  family  has  three  chil 
dren.  Now,  just  for  exercise  of  something  besides  our  legs, 
I  will  do  a  little  figuring.  The  best  estimate  I  can  get  is 
that  there  are  now  in  this  country  3,500,000  negroes.  Of 
these  less  than  500,000  have  some  white  blood,  but  we  will 
not  reckon  on  that  except  to  help  us  along.  We  will  say 
there  are  3,500,000  blacks.  Sehr  gut!  Perhaps  2,000,000 
are  marriageable  or  will  become  so.  They  must  be  married 
to  2,000,000  pure  whites.  Result:  6,000,000  mulattoes. 
These  must  be  married  to  6,000,000  pure  whites.  Result: 
18,000,000  quadroons.  These  must  be  married  to  18,000,- 
ooo  pure  whites.  Result:  54,000,000  metifs.  Marry  these 


THE   ANSWERER  205 

to  54,000,000  whites  and  we  might  have  162,000,000 
meameloucs.  Marry  these  to  162,000,000  whites  and  look 
for  486,000,000  quarterons;  each  of  whom  will  have  one- 
thirty-second  negro  blood.  The  next  generation,  if  children 
of  whites  and  quarterons,  would  be  sang-meles — let  me  see, 
jal  1,458,000,000  Raoul  Dumouriezs." 

"  Must  be  a  gross  mistake  somewhere.  Not  all  would 
marry;  many  would  die  young." 

"  True  enough.  The  proportion  is  the  thing.  With  all 
possible  corrections,  that  would  stay  the  same." 

"  Africa  will  have  to  remain  the  Dark  Continent — dark- 
skinned,  anyway!  " 

"  Physical  characteristics  are  one  thing,  traits  of  mind  are 
another,"  suggested  the  studious  young  German.  "  Our 
century  knows  nothing  about  it,  and  probably  the  next  will 
not.  While  in  the  North  I  read  a  book  by  a  fugitive  slave, 
named  Frederick  Douglass.  I  was  told  he  was  pure  black. 
He  wrote  with  much  ability.  Have  you  read  anything  by 
the  Frenchman,  Alexandre  Dumas?  " 

"  No." 

"  He  does  plays,  stories.  I  think  they  are  as  good  at  least 
as  the  English  Walter  Scott's.  But  I  learned  here  the  other 
day  that  Dumas 's  grandmother  was  a  Santo  Domingo  ne- 
gress.  So  he  has,  maybe,  one-eighth  black  blood." 

"  After  all,"  commented  Walt,  with  a  touch  of  speculative 
enthusiasm,  "  great,  positive  characters  may  arise,  assert 
themselves!  Such  natural  persons,  superiorly  endowed, 
count  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  number  in  any  race,  or 
any  generation.  Isn't  that  so?  But  you  spoke  of  Scott. 
Every  one  here  in  the  South  seems  to  read  him,  though 


206  THE   ANSWERER 

chiefly  his  novels,  stories,  which  I  care  least  about.  Am  no 
hand  to  read  novels,  anyway.  Scott's  poetry  has  been  my 
inexhaustible  source  of  rich,  varied  pleasure.  About  my  six 
teenth  year,  I  guess,  I  got  hold  of  a  stout  volume,  octavo  of 
a  thousand  pages  with  jungles  of  footnotes;  I  have  it  and 
read  it  yet — the  Border  minstrelsy,  '  Marmion,'  c  Lady  of 
the  Lake,'  c  Rokeby,'  all  the  dramas,  essays  on  poetry,  on 
romance — oh,  a  perpetual  feast!  Byron  I  have  much  loved, 
but  seem  to  care  less  for." 

Traubel  looked  at  his  companion  keenly,  met  the  clear, 
gray-blue  eye,  and  was  struck  by  its  lucid  serenity.  He 
asked: 

"  Tell  me,  Whitman  mem  Freund,  what  is  it  you  would 
most  like  to  do,  to  become?  " 

His  pale-looking  face  of  a  German  student  and  intellec 
tual  was  extremely  earnest;  eye  to  eye  Walt  received  the 
question  and  appeared  to  digest  it  for  some  minutes.  Stand 
ing  together  on  the  peopled  levee,  they  seemed  to  themselves 
completely  isolated;  and  a  curious  tension  was  established. 
...  At  length  Walt  exclaimed: 

"  Why  ask  me  that?  Do  you  want  me  to  confess  I  don't 
know?  I've  thought  of  so  many  things;  they  don't  fit.  Or 
I  don't  fit  them.,  Ever  since  I  was  a  youngster  I've  scrib 
bled,  written.  Trash,  trash!  I've  tried  to  write  verse.  It's 
worthless;  isn't  even  third-rate  verse.  I've  talked,  lectured. 
That  wa'n't  any  good,  either.  Sometimes  I  think  there  ain't 
anything]  but  as  soon  as  I  quit  thinking,  go  outdoors,  see 
people,  sights,  and  mingle  with  persons  I  begin  to  live  again ; 
feel  redblooded,  inexpressibly  excited,  eager ;  have  the  strong 
sense  that  I  am  meant  for  all  this  and  that  something  good, 


THE   ANSWERER  207 

something  positive  will  yet  come  out  of  it  all,  be  expressed 
by  me  or  through  me,  it  doesn't  matter  which.  Maybe  in 
action;  maybe  in  both  words  and  action  blending.  Which, 
which?  And  when?  How  long  must  I  wait — watch,  absorb, 
steep,  ripen?  " 

"  In  Europe,  at  this  hour,  you  would  live  in  action!  " 

"Europe?  No!  I'm  American.  What  I  feel,  what  I 
want  to  live,  express,  is  peculiarly  American." 

"  I'm  not  sure  there  is,  as  yet,  anything  peculiarly  Amer 
ican!  " 

"There  is!  I  know,  feel,  there  is.  You  and  all  Euro 
peans,  skilled  observers  like  Dickens  among  you,  come  here 
and  don't  perceive  it;  why?  Because  it  is  yet  undistilled; 
but  it  shall  be  distilled!  Oh,  call  it  my  insufferable  con 
ceit,  if  you  will;  but  I  shall  yet  help  to  distil  it!  " 


9 

The  life  of  words — worse!  the  life  of  mere  meditated 
words,  plumed  thoughts,  and  reverie  arising  in  the  midst  of, 
and  out  of  observation — as  against  the  pressed  claims  of  the 
life  of  action  .  .  . 

Shortly  after  the  talk  with  Traubel,  Walt  and  the  young 
German  were  again  at  the  Maison  Fleurus  as  callers  or 
rather,  perhaps,  as  persons  transiently  uppermost  in  Mile. 
Jeanne's  constantly  rotating  cercle.  Indeed,  that  was 
Jeanne's  own  expressed  conception  of  their  presence  this 
afternoon. 

"  My  cercle  revolves  not  giddily,  like  a  roulette  wheel; 
on  the  other  hand,  it  comes  never  to  a  standstill,"  she  de- 


208  THE  ANSWERER 

clared,  smiling.  "  Then,  aussi,  it  has  more  chances  in  its 
circumference.  I  never  lose." 

"Would  I  could  say  as  much!  "  uttered  Jose  O'Donoju, 
with  an  air  of  classic  declamation.  "  I  never  win!  " 

"  You  cannot  expect  to  win  wars  and  money  both/'  re 
buked  Jeanne. 

"  I've  lost  me  money.    If  I  lose  the  War  of  Liberation — " 

"  How  do  you  expect  to  win  a  war  in  South  America  when 
you  stay  here  in  Nouvelle  Orleans,  muy  Jose?  " 

"  I'm  here  to  get  funds  for  the  cause.  Or  am  I?  The 
buenos  Colorados  say  I  am;  so  do  I.  Your  illustrious  pere 
says  I  am  here  to  be  hired  as  a  filibustero  in  Cuba;  I  say 
not.  I  say  also  I  am  here  to  become  his  son-in-law;  he 
says  not.  You  say — " 

"It  is  evident,  my  dear  friend,  that  the  deciding  vote 
rests  with  me.  I  determine  your  destiny  in  all  directions. 
Be  patient,  your  fate  is  in  wise  hands."  Unusual  sounds  of 
indignant  disapproval,  coming  from  Madame  Fleurus,  ter 
minated  this  chaffing.  The  South  American  general  turned 
to  conciliate  Jeanne's  aunt.  Jeanne  began  to  talk  with  Walt 
and  Traubel,  first  introducing  a  man  of  winning  appearance 
and  manner  who  sat  very  quietly  for  one  of  that  group.  He 
struck  Walt  as  being  a  few  years  older  than  himself — 
thirty-five,  possibly. 

"  M'sieu'  Whitman,  M'sieu'  Trouble,  this  is  Eugene  Fuller 
of  Nouvelle  Orleans,  but  a  native  of  the  North,  like  you, 
M'sieu'  Whitman.  Of  Massachusetts." 

Walt  asked  at  once: 

"  Are  you  related  to  Margaret  Fuller?  " 

"  She  is  my  sister."    Eugene  Fuller  was  surprised ;  pleased 


THE   ANSWERER  209 

yet  somehow  disconcerted.  I've  flustered  him,  thought  Walt, 
and,  besides,  he  feels  hardly  at  ease  among  the  lot  of  us. 
But  I  like  his  looks  and  I  guess  I  want  to  get  to  know 
him.  .  .  . 

With  a  perceptible  effort  to  be  civil,  Eugene  Fuller  asked: 

"  Do  you  know  my  sister?  " 

"  I  met  her  once,  casually,  years  ago."  The  words  seemed 
to  revive  in  Walt's  mind  with  extraordinary  clearness  an 
evening  spent  in  a  Long  Island  parlor  back  in,  let's  see, 
in  1840?  Yes.  1840,  Fifth  Month.  .  .  .  Aloud  he  con 
tinued  : 

"  'Twas  at  the  Mulfords',  in  Babylon.  She  was  passing 
through,  just  staying  over  night;  I  likewise.  We  had  a 
long,  fine  talk  after  supper.  Strangely  enough,  though  later 
she  came  to  work  in  New  York,  on  the  Tribune  under 
Horace  Greeley  and  I  was  constantly  in  New  York  myself 
those  days,  we  never  saw  each  other  at  that  time.  I  saw, 
could  as  I  thought  constantly  detect  her  writing.  New 
York  has  a  peculiar  property  of  bringing  folks  side  by  side 
and  never  letting  them  meet." 

"  How  I  should  dislike  that  city!  "  declared  Mile.  Fleurus. 
"  What  is  the  Yankee  proverb?  yes!  it  is  a  haystack  and  all 
of  the  inhabitants  are  needles.  Paris  is  quicksilver,  always 
running  together  and  spilling  apart.  Charleston  is  a  rich 
cake  in  careful  layers.  Richmond  is  like  a  pair  of  embroid 
ered,  easy  old  slippers.  How  I  loved  Richmond!  But  then, 
perhaps  it  was  mostly  M'sieu'  Edgar  Poe." 

"  You  knew  Poe?  "  asked  Traubel. 

"  Who  did  not?  He  was  our  girlish  hero.  Once  he  spoke 
to  us,  the  young  ladies  of  the  seminary;  but  afterward  he 


210  THE   ANSWERER 

became  scandalous  and  we  were  instructed  that,  as  a  person, 
he  had  ceased  to  exist.  Oh,  how  funny  it  was!  "  Jeanne 
laughed  unrestrainedly.  "  But  as  if  that  did  not  make  him 
only  the  more  fascinating!  You  can  imagine,  doubtless,  how 
for  us  jeunes  files  no  poet  could  exist  without  an  interest  in 
his  person  of  the  liveliest!  Byron,  par  exemple!  Was  he 
wicked?  We  spent  hours  regenerating  him  in  our  secret 
hearts.  It  is  not  appreciated,  mes  amis,  the  good  such  men 
do  by  stimulating  the  purest  and  most  virtuous — truly  un 
selfish — emotions  in  the  feminine  bosom!  "  For  all  her  ban 
ter,  thought  Walt,  she  more  than  half  means  it. 

"  Poe  interests  Europe  outside  of  England.  So  far,  he  is 
your  only  American  writer  who  does."  Traubel  was  talk 
ing.  "  The  young  girl  here  as  everywhere  may  be  anthropo- 
poetic,  but  European  readers  and  critics  are  not." 

"  M'sieu'  Trouble!     What  is  that  name  you  call  us?  " 

"  Anthropo-poetic?  That  would  mean  to  insist  on  seeing 
the  person  behind  the  poet,  or  the  poem." 

"C'est  barbare!" 

"  Es  1st  ja  nicht!  Nothing  of  the  sort!  It  is  good  Greek. 
A  well-built  word;  one  excellent  thing  about  our  German 
tongue  is  that  it  permits,  even  encourages,  such  word-build 
ing,  as  did  Greek." 

"  Why  not  such  word-building  in  English?  "  asked  Walt, 
interested. 

Traubel  threw  up  his  hands. 

"  Ach,  English!  The  universal  solvent.  It  takes  all 
tongues  and  gives  their  words  its  own  silver-plating,  or  de 
composes  them  for  its  use,  or  forms  a  precipitate  with  them 


THE   ANSWERER  211 

or  produces  new,  beautiful  crystals  of  speech.  What  a  lan 
guage!  " 

"  The  language  of  Poe,"  said  mischievously  Jeanne 
Fleurus. 

"  Is  it?  "  demanded  Walt.  "  I  want  to  be  fair,  just.  But 
does  Poe,  in  his  poetry,  use  English?  Seems  to  me  he  rings 
carillons.  Like  perpetual  chimes  of  music  bells,  ringing  from 
lower  b  flat  up  to  g.  Yet,  within  their  limited  range  of 
melody,  I  see  them  to  be  melodious,  beautiful  expressions, 
doubtless  unexcelled  expressions,  of  certain  pronounced 
phases  of  human  morbidity."  He  turned,  tolerantly  gestur 
ing,  to  Traubel.  "The  poetic  area  is  very  spacious;  has 
room  for  all;  has  so  many  mansions!  But  with  what  he 
says  in  The  Poetic  Principle  I  find  myself  in  fullest  agree 
ment;  I  mean  his  dictum  that,  at  any  rate  for  our  day,  our 
occasions,  there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  a  long  poem — no 
Iliad,  no  Paradise  Lost.  The  same  thought  has  haunted  me 
but  Poe's  argument,  short  as  it  is,  works  out  the  sum,  proves 
it,  satisfies  me." 

"  What  is  this?  Are  you  a  poet,  M'sieu'  Whitman?  " 
Jeanne,  listening,  had  subjected  Walt  to  a  sharp  scrutiny 
in  which,  perhaps,  purely  feminine  perception  reinforced  ob 
jective  vision.  Walt  laughed. 

"  Phrenologist  says  not,"  he  assured  her,  with  practised 
concealment  that  amused  the  impassive  Traubel.  "  I  have 
been  examined,  topographized,  bumps  on  my  head  carefully 
charted.  Nelson  Fowler  was  very  leisurely  about  it,  made 
an  elaborate  examination  at  the  Phrenological  Cabinet  of 
Fowler  &  Wells,  Nassau  Street  near  Beekman,  New  York. 


212  THE   ANSWERER 

I  have,  in  a  mixture  I  can't  remember,  voluptuousness,  in- 
habitiveness,  combativeness,  conscientiousness,  alimentive- 
ness,  intuitiveness,  copious  friendship,  some  sublimity,  firm 
ness,  self-esteem,  individuality,  and  the  faculties  of  form, 
locality,  eventuality  and  comparison — a  few  elude  me." 

"  And  you  are  a  born  tactician,"  said  Traubel,  his  eye 
meeting  Walt's.  Walt  returned  the  glance  calmly;  his 
divertissement  had  been  successful  and  Jeanne  was  now  ex 
changing  remarks  across  the  room  with  O'Donoju. 

Traubel,  turning  to  Eugene  Fuller,  was  asking  about  the 
Brook  Farm  experiment.  Fuller  explained: 

"  I  know  little  about  it.  I  had  left  New  England  some 
years  before,  in  '35,  to  act  as  tutor  on  the  Storrow  planta 
tion  in  Virginia.  My  sister  wasn't  a  member  of  the  Brook 
Farm  community,  only  a  visitor,  though  people  will  have 
it  that  she  lived  there.  That  is  wrong." 

"  I  lament  having  come  to  America  too  late  to  visit  Brook 
Farm.  That  would  have  rounded  out  importantly  my  study 
of  such  experiments,"  Traubel  declared.  "  For  a  country 
so  young,  America  has  many  such." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  Walt  added.  "  Of  course,  there 
are  the  Mormons.  And  we've  all  heard  of  seven-and-seventy 
sects,  reforms,  what-not  in  the  last  half-dozen  years.  But  I 
thought  it  had  mostly  died  down." 

"  I  have  in  mind  particularly  the  experiments  of  my  coun 
trymen,"  was  Traubel's  answer.  "  Odd,  small  religious  sects 
like  the  Labardists  who  came  to  Delaware  in  a  handful  in 
1684  and  the  Pietists  who  settled  near  Germantown  ten 
years  later.  Both  those  colonies  soon  perished,  but  the  Dun- 
kards  have  done  better  with  their  so-called  cloister  of 


THE   ANSWERER  213 

Ephrata.  The  Moravians,  at  Bethlehem,  tried  communistic 
living;  it  did  not  work  well  but  Bethlehem  thrives  as  a 
town.  But  the  newer  ventures  are  more  interesting.  I 
have  visited  the  place  called  Economy,  about  twenty  miles 
from  Pittsburgh,  which  is  the  third  home  in  this  country  of 
Father  Rapp's  Harmony  sect.  That  is  a  settlement  of  great 
beauty  with  simple,  well-proportioned  buildings  and  many 
vines  and  flowers,  including  a  floral  labyrinth.  Those  people 
are  rich,  for  on  some  of  their  land  is  coal  and  they  have  good 
mills  and  looms  and  make  good  wines.  Perhaps,  now  that 
the  good  Father  Rapp  has  just  died,  they  will  not  do  so 
well." 

"  But  what  do  such  folks  believe?  " 

"  Oh,  no  use  of  tobacco,  celibacy ;  some  allow  music,  some 
do  not.  It  is  a  mixture  of  religious  ideas  and  communism; 
apparently  neither  set  of  ideas  has  hold  enough  alone.  Well, 
you  can  see!  Communism  is  purely  intellectual,  and  these 
are,  or  were,  little-educated  people,  peasants  mostly.  It 
needs  the  emotional,  the  religious  appeal.  There  is  also  a 
community  called  Zoar,  in  your  State  of  Ohio,  and  the  sect 
of  the  Inspirationists  have  just  abandoned  five  villages  with 
mills,  shops  and  schools  to  settle  in  Iowa  at  a  place  they 
call  Amana.  Christian  Metz,  the  leader  at  Amana,  is  strong 
and  able.  That  should  last  awhile,  though  all  amusement, 
even  music,  is  forbidden;  celibacy  is  encouraged  but  not  in 
sisted  on." 

"  Sixty-odd  young  Frenchmen  have  just  passed  through 
here  on  their  way  to  found  a  similar  colony,"  said  Eugene 
Fuller.  "  Disicples  of  Etienne  Cabet,  I  believe." 

"  Ach,  yes!     He  wrote  about  '  Icaria/  an  ideal  society 


214  THE   ANSWERER 

like "— Traubel    explained    to    Walt— "  the    English    Sir 
Thomas  More's  '  Utopia.'  " 

"  It's  a  shame,"  Eugene  Fuller  insisted.  "  Those  young 
sters  will  get  the  fever  in  the  swamps  of  some  Louisiana 
parish  or  else  they'll  go  loco  on  the  Texas  plains.  There 
ought  to  be  some  way  to  stop  them." 

"A  free  country!  Besides,  Mr.  Fuller,"  Traubel  added 
simply,  "  who  can  protect  men  from  themselves?  Surely  no 
government,  for  a  government  cannot  even  protect  itself 
from  ideas!  " 

Soon  after  the  cercle  broke  up.    Walt,  taking  leave  of  \ 
Jeanne,  was  at  pains  also  to  say  farewell  to  O'Donoju  and 
Traubel,  for  he  wanted  to  talk  further  with  Eugene  Fuller, 
to  whom,  as  they  approached  Canal  Street,  he  said  with 
emphasis: 

"  I  count  meeting  you  here  to-day  a  piece  of  the  best,  the 
luckiest  good  fortune!  Although  I  never  saw  your  sister  in 
New  York,  I  much  admired  her  writings  and  I  have  never 
forgotten  the  light  she  shed,  the  help  she  gave,  searching  in 
sights  from  her  observation,  reading,  experience,  in  our  talk 
'way  back,  eight  years  ago  very  nearly.  She  had,  has,  a 
powerful,  'cute  mind.  Do  tell  me  what  you  hear  of  her! 
She  left  the  Tribune,  I  know;  went  abroad  a  year — or  was 
it  longer? — ago.  Must  be  longer." 

"  Yes,  it  approaches  two  years.  She  sailed  in  August, 
1846.  She  visited  England,  Scotland,  Paris,  Rome.  Last 
summer  she  was  in  Switzerland,  returning  last  October  to 
Rome.  It — it  has  been  the  fulfilment  of  her  lifelong  dream." 

A  hesitation,  or  uncertainty,  due  to  some  unexplained 
emotion,  struck  Walt's  ear  at  once,  seemed  to  give  the  cue 


THE   ANSWERER  215 

to  something  in  his  own  nature,  frequently  touched,  never 
unresponsive.  Eugene  Fuller  had  a  presence,  a  personality, 
actually  more  attractive  and  winning  than  that  of  his  sister. 
Walt  felt  it,  and  perhaps  the  brother  of  Margaret  Fuller  felt 
also  something  unordinary,  something  even  provoking  to  in 
timacy,  in  the  frank-faced,  bearded  younger  man  walking 
beside  him.  He  said  tentatively: 

"  Margaret  was  always  strikingly  outspoken,  in  conversa 
tion." 

"  Oh,  she  did  much  for  me  at  a  critical  moment!  A  deep, 
beautiful,  but  intensely  painful  experience  lay  just  ahead 
of  me;  she  could  not  avert  it  from  me,  wouldn't  have  wanted 
to,  nor  would  I  have  wanted  her  to.  Nor,  perhaps,  make  it 
easier  in  the  undergoing;  but  afterward  her  words,  remem 
bered,  frequently  pondered,  were  a  great  comfort,  solace,  to 
me!  " 

"Thank  you  for  that!  "  Eugene  Fuller  spoke  warmly. 
"  I  have  sometimes  thought,  hearing  so  many  things  said, 
so  many  criticisms,  that  Margaret  had  scarcely  any  true 
friends.  And  our  separation  made  the  fact  of  her  friend 
ships  seem  less  real,  I  suppose,  than  the  certainty  of  her 
enemies." 

"  Give  me  her  address,  do!  and  I  will  write  to  her.  I 
should  have  done  so  before;  but  for  a  long,  long  while  any 
thought  of  thanking  her  brought  up  something  so  painful  I 
had  to  thrust  it  all  back,  back  in  my  recollection.  I  sup 
pose,  truthfully  examined,  I'd  find  that  to  be  the  real  reason 
I  never  made  the  effort  to  look  her  up,  acknowledge  her 
help,  in  New  York.  But  I'll  write  to  her  now  in  Rome, 
yes!  " 


216  THE   ANSWERER 

Eugene  Fuller  flushed,  looked  dismayed.  As  he  halted 
on  the  sidewalk  in  visible  perplexity  and  irresolution  Walt 
exclaimed: 

"  Have  I  said  anything  wrong?  I'll  unsay  it,  then.  I 
meant  only  well — " 

"No,  that  is  all  right!  I — I  was  wondering  if  I  could 
show  you  something  in  confidence?  It  contains  a  secret 
...  I  have  really  no  right  to  show  it  to  any  one  .  .  .  but 
you  have  spoken  so  finely  of  Margaret,  I  think,  perhaps,  if 
you  will  promise  not  to  speak  of  it — " 

"  I  will  most  certainly  not  speak  of  it.  You've  my  prom 
ise!  But,  wait!  Do  as  you  feel.  Take  time,  if  you  wish, 
to  deliberate  a  little." 

"  No,"  Eugene  Fuller  answered  convincedly.  "  I  am  cer 
tain  it  is  right  to  show  it  to  you.  You — you  have  been 
frank.  It  is  a  letter  from  Margaret.  I  think,  since  al 
though  you  saw  her  some  years  ago,  you  really  and  rightly 
feel  you  know  her  intimately,  it  is  better  you  should  read  it 
than  that  I  should  try  to  give  you  the  substance,  which  I 
couldn't  do  without  being  unfair  to  her.  I  mean,  it  would 
not  sound  right  or  reasonable  in  any  other  telling  than  her 
own.  I  have  it  in  my  pocket.  Will  you  come  to  the  Club 
with  me?  Do;  and  you  shall  take  your  time  over  it  and 
afterward  we  will  have  dinner  together." 

10 

"  Dearest  Eugene,"  ran  Margaret's  letter,  dated  from 
Rome,  a  month  earlier,  "  have  you  wondered  at  not  hearing 
oftener  from  me?  Then,  when  you  have  read  this  letter, 
perhaps  your  wonder  will  be  less.  For  at  last,  Brother,  I 


THE  ANSWERER 

have  emerged  from  the  life  of  thought  and  dreams  and  pa 
tient  (not  always  patient! )  waiting  into  the  life  of  action.  I 
have,  in  modest  seeming,  that  wish  you  once  heard  me  ex 
press:  To  be  a  Pericles  rather  than  an  Anaxagoras,  to  trans 
late  myself  and  not  anybody  else  however  heavenly-gifted. 
True,  the  great  Goethe  says:  'Thought  expands,  but 
lames;  action  animates,  but  narrows.'  Yet  with  all  his  im 
mensity,  you  know  I  have  never  gone  to  Goethe  as  a  guide 
or  friend,  but  as  a  great  thinker  who  made  me  think.  Now, 
in  my  thirty-eighth  year,  I  hope  I  have  done  my  thinking 
to  some  effectual  purpose;  if  not,  surely,  in  the  posture  of 
niy  present  affairs,  it  is  too  late.  Is  it?  I  am  confident  not. 
And  I  have  this  to  say  further:  Judge  me,  let  all  who 
know  judge  me,  not  by  the  thirty-seven  years  that  are  gone, 
the  slow  preparation,  the  aching  study  and  continuous  anx 
iety,  the  dawdling,  the  tried  expedients,  the  continually-de 
ferred  wish — all  that!  It  is  over  with,  sunk,  lost,  sub 
merged  ;  hold  it  no  more  against  me  than  the  years  of  a  child 
at  school  in  appraising  the  produced  work  of  a  graduated, 
emergent  man. 

"  For  how  many  years  have  I  not  thought  of  myself  as 
destined  for  the  role,  exquisite  but  unsuitable,  of  renuncia 
tion.  Once  in  my  early  life,  as  I  think  you  know,  there  came 
to  me  a  deep  experience  of  emotion  in  relation  to  another, 
followed  by  profound  disappointment.  After  that  it  used 
to  be  that  I  would  say  to  myself  that  I  had  no  home  on  the 
earth.  In  the  pain  of  this  acknowledgment  there  was  yet 
the  consolation  of  an  image  ever-present  of  a  home  that 
would  have  a  degree  of  beautiful  harmony  with  my  inward 
life.  Driven  from  home  to  home  as  a  Renouncer,  I  seemed 


2i8  THE   ANSWERER 

to  myself  to  absorb  the  picture  and  the  poetry  of  each. 
Keys  of  gold,  silver,  iron  and  lead  accumulated  in  my 
casket. 

"No  one  loved  me;  but  I  loved  many  a  good  deal;  and 
the  varied  calls  on  my  sympathy  were  such  as  to  make  me 
hope  not  to  be  made  partial,  cold  or  ignorant  in  my  isola 
tion.  I  had  no  child,  and  the  woman  in  me  has  so  craved 
this  experience  that  it  has  seemed  the  want  of  it  must  para 
lyze  me.  That  death  in  life  has  been  spared  me,  as  I  now 
know;  the  cup  has  passed  from  my  lips.  In  all  reverence, 
in  humility  and  ecstacy,  I  sing:  '  My  soul  doth  magnify 
the  Lord,  and  my  spirit  hath  rejoiced  in  God  my  Sa 
viour.'  .  .  . 

"  For,  dear  Eugene,  my  brother,  I  am  a  wife;  more,  I 
have  the  promise  of  becoming  a  mother. 

"  Read  on  and  you  shall  know  all  the  circumstances  that 
can  be  communicated  in  a  letter;  but  before  you  read  fur 
ther,  I  charge  you  to  keep  this  secret  closely  for  the  good 
reasons  which  will  appear  in  what  follows.  I  do  not  mean 
that  you  may  not  confide  in  any  one  whatsoever,  but  let  it 
not  be  in  more  than  one  or  two  of  those  who  know  or  have 
known  me  and  let  the  justification  for  their  choice  be  not 
formal  but  spiritual  kinship.  .  .  . 

"In  early  spring  now  almost  a  year  ago,  as  you  know,  I 
first  reached  Rome.  It  was  soon  after  that  arrival,  while  I 
was  yet  too  thrilled  with  happiness  to  do  much  more  than 
venture  out  in  a  golden  haze,  that  I  went  one  day  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Spring  to  hear  vespers  at  St.  Peter's.  After  the 
service  I  suggested  we  wander  about  separately  as  pleased 
us,  viewing  the  chapels,  etc.,  and  meeting  at  an  agreed  place. 


THE   ANSWERER  219 

There,  however,  I  failed  to  find  them.  While  1  was  going 
about  and  looking  for  them  among  various  groups  a  young 
and  gentlemanly  Italian  who  saw  my  visible  uncertainty 
came  up.  He  offered,  as  I  could  gather,  to  guide  me.  With 
my  assent  we  looked  for  some  while  longer,  the  crowd  gradu 
ally  leaving.  At  length  he  tried  to  procure  a  carriage  for 
me ;  none  was  to  be  had,  and  so  we  walked  to  my  residence. 
There  was  an  attempt  at  conversation,  not  very  successful, 
for  he  knew  no  English  and  my  spoken  Italian  is,  or  was 
then,  rather,  highly  deficient.  We  parted  at  my  door ;  I  told 
the  Springs  of  this  little  adventure. 

"  Not  more  than  a  day  or  two  afterward  I  observed  the 
same  gentleman  walking  in  front  of  the  house,  as  if  he  con 
templated  calling.  And  a  little  later  he  did.  ...  I  must 
shorten  these  preliminaries,  and  will  do  so  by  simply  saying 
that  we  met  once  or  twice  before  I  left  Rome  to  visit  the 
cities  of  the  North  and  Switzerland.  This  is  how  I  came  to 
know  the  man  who  is  now  my  husband,  Giovanni  Angelo, 
Marchese  (Marquis)  Ossoli. 

"  Last  October  I  returned  to  Rome,  taking  an  apartment 
in  the  Corso  and  highly  resolving  to  live  for  six  whole 
months  on  $400.  You  who  know  what  economies  I  have 
been  used  to  will  appreciate  that  this  was  not  so  hopeless 
an  undertaking  as,  to  many  others,  it  must  sound.  Besides, 
was  I  not  in  better  health  than  at  any  time  since  my  child 
hood?  Far  better;  for  with  the  best  intentions,  Father 
nearly  ruined  my  health  as  a  child  by  his  cramming  and 
forcing  methods  of  study,  so  that  had  I  been  a  boy  I  had 
been  qualified  to  enter  Harvard  College  at  eleven  years. 
Now  here  in  Rome  I  seemed  to  have  reconquered  good 


220  THE   ANSWERER 

health;  the  perpetual  headaches  were  absent;  and  for  hap 
piness  not  even  the  best  days  of  my  previous  life  were  com 
parable  with  these.  Much  was  due  to  congenial  acquaint 
ances,  of  course,  and  to  the  surroundings,  so  packed  with 
history  and  the  memorials  of  other  lives  lived  so  richly,  dis 
astrously,  with  tragedy  or  with  triumph — but  lived!  More, 
oh,  how  much,  much  more !  was  due  to  the  renewal  of  my  ac 
quaintance  with  Ossoli.  ...  In  the  unaffected  way  which 
alone  was  possible  to  my  circumstances,  I  used  to  receive 
people  on  Monday  evenings.  To  these  small  gatherings 
Giovanni  invariably  came.  My  Italian  improving,  we  were 
able  to  talk  freely  and  I  found  to  my  delight  that  his  youth 
made  him,  despite  his  family  and  connections,  sympathize 
with  the  republican  cause.  I,  of  course,  had  been  a  sym 
pathizer  with  the  advocates  of  Italian  liberty  and  unity  since 
my  first  arrival  abroad  and  encounters  in  London  with  the 
noble  and  ardent  Mazzini.  It  inspires  me  to  believe  that  I 
was  able,  to  an  extent,  to  encourage  Giovanni  in  his  purpose 
of  embracing  the  Cause  and,  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  tradi 
tions  and  the  risk  of  estrangement  from  his  brothers,  pledge 
himself  to  the  party  of  the  people. 

"  I  ought  to  make  it  clear,  I  suppose,  that  while  our 
friendship  was  thus  maturing  I  was  not,  or  at  least  knew 
not  that  I  was  coming  to  love  him.  Nor  did  it  occur  that 
he  had  such  thought  of  me;  for  one  thing  he  was  so  much 
younger  than  I,  being  but  thirty. 

"  As  winter  drew  on  Giovanni's  father,  the  old  Marchese, 
fell  quite  seriously  ill  and  while  he  lingered  in  this  condition 
the  care  of  looking  after  him  devolved  chiefly  upon  Giovanni 
who  was  the  youngest  and  the  only  unmarried  child.  For  a 


THE   ANSWERER  221 

while  we  saw  not  much  of  each  other  except  for  a  few  min 
utes  daily.  One  day  shortly  after  his  father's  death  Giovanni 
told  me  that  he  loved  me  and  asked  me  to  become  his  wife. 
'  I  must  marry  you  or  be  miserable/  were  his  words.  I  was 
dumbfoundered ;  told  him  I  must  refuse  to  look  upon  him  as 
a  lover ;  told  him  that  a  marriage  with  me  would  be  entirely 
unfitting  and  that  it  were  best  he  should  marry  a  younger 
woman.  I  valued,  treasured,  his  friendship;  I  could  not 
think  myself  suited  to  the  role  of  his  wife. 

"  With  this  the  matter  rested.  Some  weeks  went  by. 
Giovanni  came  as  frequently  as  ever — nor  would  I  have  had 
him  do  otherwise,  in  the  circumstances — but  his  manner  be 
came  increasingly  hopeless  and  even  in  some  sort  desperate 
and  moody.  He  was  so  utterly  unlike  himself  that  all  our 
acquaintances  noticed  the  change  and  kept  remarking  to  me 
on  his  paleness,  his  apparent  dejection  and  obvious  unhap- 
piness.  Of  myself  in  the  same  time  I  can  speak  with  less 
confidence,  but  I  came  to  doubt  whether  I  did  not  love  him, 
after  all,  and,  at  length,  to  feel,  to  know  that  I  did.  .  .  . 
As  for  his  affection,  I  couldn't  remain  unconvinced  any 
longer.  ...  To  sum  up,  then,  I  had  to  be  honest  and  con 
cede  him  honest.  We  were  married  last  December,  secretly, 
and  our  marriage  is  now  several  months  old. 

"  Why  secretly?  you  will  ask,  and  think  such  an  act  very 
unlike  your  sister  Margaret.  I  cannot  hope  to  make  you 
feel  with  their  full,  justifying  force  the  several  good  reasons. 
Giovanni's  brothers  are  chamberlains  in  the  Papal  household 
and  Giovanni  has  long  been  looked  upon  as  a  black  sheep 
by  the  Ossolis  and  their  kinsmen  on  account  of  his  radical 
political  ideas  and  sympathies.  He  has  been  conspicuous 


222  THE   ANSWERER 

for  his  adherence  to  Mazzini  and  is  placed  in  a  position  suf 
ficiently  difficult  by  his  captaincy  in  the  Civic  Guard.    His 
marriage  with  a  foreigner,  requiring  smoothing  perhaps  in 
ordinary  conditions,  might,  at  this  juncture,  if  known,  mean 
an  abrupt  break  with  his  people  in  which  no  explanation 
would  be  listened  to  and  out  of  which  no  reconciliation  after 
ward  could  arise.     To  do  Giovanni  justice,  he  was  quite 
willing  to  run  this  risk;  but  how  could  I,  in  my  position, 
countenance  his  doing  so?     Should  I  not  have  acted  with 
the  most  extraordinary  selfishness  and  egotism?     A  wife 
older  than  her  husband,  of  no  physical  attractiveness,  an 
alien  to  his  country  and  tongue  without  means  or  property 
of  her  own,  to  give  satisfied  assent  to  a  step  which  might 
mean  the  immediate  and  hopeless  sacrifice  of  everything, 
everybody,  he  has  known?    And  this  at  a  time  when  his  na 
tive  country  is  in  a  perplexed  turmoil  and  needs  the  services 
of  every  one  of  her  children  given  as  their  hearts  direct! 
The  republican  cause,  while  we  hope,  work  and  pray,  is  far 
from  success  and  may  even  go  down  to  final  defeat;  in  em 
bracing  that  cause,  in  the  event  of  its  non-success,  my  hus 
band  may  sacrifice  not  only  his  title  (for  which  neither  he 
nor  I  care  at  all)  but  all  of  the  little  property  he  has,  or  can 
hope  to  inherit — everything  in  the  world,  as  most  persons 
would  account  it.     No!     No!     There  are  immediate  diffi 
culties  and  anxieties  and  distractions  quite  enough ;  Giovanni 
jeopards  enough  and  more  than  enough  in  our  marriage  and 
in  his  political  action.    Let  us  exercise  what  prudence  and 
wholly  defensible  discretion  we  may  in  our  troubled  situa 
tion. 

"It  is  troubled,  and  a  fresh  trouble,  however  blissfully 


THE   ANSWERER  223 

awaited,  is  that  prospect  which  I  revealed  to  you  in  the  com 
mencement  of  this  letter.  But  for  that  we  lay  our  plans  as 
well  as  is  possible;  and  with  the  approach  of  summer  I  shall 
leave  Rome  and  go  to  a  tiny  village  in  the  Abruzzi  moun 
tains,  a  hamlet  called  Rieti,  where  Giovanni  will  be  able  to 
join  me  from  time  to  time  and  where  I  shall  have  the  services 
of  a  trusted  nurse,  formerly  in  the  employ  of  his  family. 
Giovanni  must  principally  remain  here  in  Rome  to  discharge 
his  duties  with  the  Guardia  Civile  as  well  as  to  prevent  the 
arousing  of  suspicion  of  our  marriage.  For,  though  I  could 
not  bring  myself  for  his  sake  to  consent  to  its  being  known, 
once  the  course  of  secrecy  has  been  entered  upon  the  neces 
sity  to  preserve  it  becomes  paramount  to  everything  else. 
I  pray  that  changed  conditions  may  end  that  necessity 
speedily. 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  Giovanni's  personal  appear 
ance?  I  wonder  if  I  can  describe  it;  probably  not  in  any 
way  that  will  lead  to  your  satisfaction.  He  is  thirty,  as  I 
have  said,  and  goodlooking,  quite  handsome,  I  believe,  in 
the  general  estimation  apart  from  my  own;  he  is  tall  and 
thin  and  there  is  a  slightly  melancholy  expression  about  his 
eyes,  or  so  I  have  heard  it  called,  though  to  me  it  is  merely 
pensive  and  winning.  He  is  above  all  amiable  and  tender, 
not  intellectual  natively  or  to  my  own  extent;  simple,  natural, 
good!  That  he  has  great  personal  courage,  much  spirit, 
zeal  and  patriotic  devotion  I  feel  and,  in  the  fortunes  so 
changing  about  us  daily,  the  world  may  come  to  know.  I 
enclose  a  lock  of  his  hair,  blue-black  like  that  of  so  many  of 
his  countrymen;  and  only  wish  I  could  send  you  a  picture 
to  show  you  the  delicate  features  and  the  expression  I  have 


224  THE   ANSWERER 

spoken  of  about  the  eyes.  ...  He  is  full  of  the  most  con 
stant  and  lover-like  attentions,  over  and  above,  I  should 
think,  the  habitual  courtesy  and  attentiveness  in  which  men 
of  the  highest  European  classes  are  bred.  His  education, 
while  not  extensive,  is  such  as  most  Roman  gentlemen  re 
ceive;  a  priest  has  the  care  of  them  in  childhood  and  acts 
as  tutor.  Giovanni  has  no  foreign  languages  except  for 
reading  French  a  little;  his  chief  interest  among  his  studies, 
he  tells  me,  was  always  Italian  history.  He  has  much  re 
serve,  listens  rather  than  talks,  and  is  not  quickly  inter 
ested  in  other  people,  so  that  most  of  the  Americans  here 
tend  to  think  there  is  not  much  in  him  and  find  him  rather 
dull.  To  be  sure,  only  myself  can  know  how  lover-like  he 
can  be;  nothing  appears  too  trivial  in  the  way  of  attentions 
to  me;  he  is  genuinely  thoughtful  and  unselfish  in  a  strik 
ing  degree.  And  nothing,  I  think,  shows  this  better  than 
the  fact  that  for  some  time  before  our  marriage,  realizing 
instinctively  how  limited  were  my  means,  he  was  always  in 
the  habit  of  making  what  Italians  term  little  economies — 
suggestions  or  arrangements  that  would  better  suit  my  feeble 
old  purse. 

"  Oh,  I  am  happy,  Eugene,  happy,  happy,  happy! 

"  At  present  I  am  staying  on  the  Piazza  Barberini.  This 
,is  formed  by  the  convergence  of  three  streets  and  is  adorned 
with  Bernini's  Triton  blowing  a  conch.  In  a  side  street, 
behind,  is  the  Villa  Ludovisi  and  here,  in  the  vanished  cen 
turies,  lay  the  gardens  of  Sallust.  The  piazza  takes  its  name 
from  the  Barberini  palace,  on  one  of  the  three  streets  meet 
ing  at  the  piazza ;  this  particular  street  ascends  the  Quirinal 
crowned  by  the  palace  occupied  usually  by  the  Popes  in 


THE   ANSWERER  225 

summer.  All  this  is  rather  in  the  north  and  easterly  part  of 
Rome,  you  must  know,  and  you  are  not  to  picture  me  liv 
ing  among  ancient  ruins;  the  Colosseum  and  ancient  Rome 
in  general  occupy  the  southerly  part  of  the  city,  though  the 
Baths  of  Diocletian  are  in  easy  walking  distance. 

"  You  will  wonder  anxiously,  no  doubt,  what  plans,  if  any, 
I  have  made  in  the  event  of  anything  untoward — war,  civil 
commotion  or  merely  a  personal  problem  of  some  sort  aris 
ing.  In  such  a  case  I  shall  take  Mrs.  Story  fully  into  my 
confidence,  even  to  the  extent  of  trusting  her  with  my  be 
longings  including  the  certificate  of  my  marriage.  .  .  .  But 
that  is  very  unlikely  to  be  necessary.  I  am  so  happy,  so 
hopeful,  I  believe  our  fortunes  must  turn  out  well. 

"  Why?  I  scarcely  know  unless  it  be  that  for  me  my 
marriage  with  a  man  who  loves  me,  and  whom  I  love,  is  the 
consummation  of  all  toward  which,  as  I  now  see  it,  my  life 
has  tended.  That  consummation,  so  long  and  so  heart- 
breakingly  delayed,  might  easily  have  come  too  late.  I 
might  have  become  dried  up,  dessicated  and  sealed  against 
the  deepest  possibility  of  human  emotion — at  least,  so  it 
seems  to  me  now;  though  perhaps  in  looking  backward  we 
invest  with  superfluous  horror  the  fate  we  have  eluded.  You 
will  understand,  also,  how  strongly  I  am  appealed  to  not 
by  the  possibty  romantic  elements  preceding  and  entering 
into  my  marriage  but  by  the  circumstances  in  which  I — 
Giovanni  and  I  together — find  ourselves  placed.  I  mean 
the  translation  of  deliberated  plan  (not  mere  impulse)  into 
glorious  and  inspiring  action  in  which  we  can  and  do  join. 
For,  fine  as  was  the  achievement  of  liberty  in  our  New 
World,  the  reconquest  of  liberty  here  in  the  Old  has  a 


226  THE   ANSWERER 

double,  nay  a  many-folded  inspiration.  It  is  not  simply  that 
a  nation  is  to  be  born,  but  Italy,  Rome,  is  to  spring  into 
new  life! 

"I  wish  I  could  say  that  other  Americans  here  felt  in  any 
degree  as  I  do,  but  I  am  afraid  I  cannot.  In  the  main, 
they  seem  indifferent,  or  perhaps  annoyed  at  the  inconven 
iences  to  which  the  civil  struggle  inevitably  subjects  them. 
It  is  curious  that  people  should  so  largely  remain  unable  to 
look  at  a  cause,  like  Italian  unity,  in  the  terms  of  the  lofty 
principle  by  which  it  has  been  conceived.  Or,  when  once 
they  have  done  so,  that  they  should  lose  the  moral  eleva 
tion  of  that  insight  in  the  dust  of  a  struggle  to  execute  its 
purpose.  .  .  .  Our  littleness  is  not  to  be  overcome  in  a  few 
generations  or  centuries.  '  Action  animates,  but  narrows.' 
So  be  it;  perhaps  I,  too,  will  become  narrow;  but  act  I 
must. 

"  And  in  action  there  is  great  solace,  solace  that  is  or  will 
be  needed  by  Giovanni  and  myself  in  the  days  immediately 
ahead.  So  much  is  uncertain,  indefinite,  barely  probable! 
We  do  not  know  when  we  can  make  our  marriage  known 
with  discretion;  we  do  not  know  but  that  it  may  have  to 
be  made  known  in  conditions  that  leave  nothing  to  discre 
tion  or  even  to  hope  outside  of  our  unaided  selves.  Should 
the  worst  befall,  we  can  with  fortune  make  our  way  to 
America;  there  I  have  some  friends,  there  I  can  work  and 
Giovanni  will  labor  to  establish  himself,  successfully  I  feel 
confident.  But  for  the  moment,  or  the  hour,  or  the  day  we 
are  comfortably  and  safely  placed;  do  not  worry  yourself 
in  the  least  about  me  (how  can  you  when  I  tell  you  of  my 
supreme  happiness ! )  and  should  there  be  anything  you  can 


THE   ANSWERER  227 

do  I  will  not  hesitate  to  let  you  know.  .  .  .  Keep  well  and 
prosper  at  the  South.  Do  you  remember  in  our  childhood 
how  you  and  I  were  nearest  companions?  We  were,  of 
course,  about  of  an  age;  but  I  think  it  was  something  shared 
in  our  natures  that  used  to  make  us  love  to  wander  out  to 
gether,  across  streams  and  through  the  woods,  walking  and 
talking  or  oftener  silent — never  other  than  happy.  Those 
good  days!  Let  the  memory  of  them  freshen  your  thoughts 
of  me.  .  .  .  Guard  well  my  dear  secret,  Eugene,  for  now  I 
must  close  this  too-long  letter  with  the  truest  affection  for 
you  from  Giovanni  as  well  as  from  your  sister, 

"MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI." 

ii 

When  he  finished  reading  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli's  letter, 
tears  had  stood  in  Walt's  eyes;  and  tears  came  to  them 
afterward  in  hours  when,  remembering  a  Fifth  Month  eve 
ning  in  a  quiet  Long  Island  parlor,  he  remembered  also 
the  days  and  nights  immediately  following.  Esther!  .  .  . 
L'amor  che  muove  it  sole  e  I'altre  stelle. 

"  The  immortal  great  do  not  find  their  sublime  fulfil 
ment  in  sex."  And,  not  eight  years  afterward,  from  the 
same  throat,  the  eternal  song  of  preparing  motherhood: 
"  My  soul  doth  magnify  the  Lord  .  .  ." 

He  wondered,  with  a  great  ache  of  separation  and  loneli 
ness,  if  Esther,  also  .  .  . 

Useless!  Useless!  Have  you  not  confronted  all  that, 
Walt,  and  plowed  it  under?  Deliberately,  thoroughly? 
with  the  determination,  purposely  brave,  that  since  you 
cannot  harvest  the  growth  it  shall  enrich  the  soil  for  future 


228  THE  ANSWERER 

growth?  Yes,  yes;  but  where  is  now  that  future  growth? 
What  are  you?  What  will  you  yet  become  that  you  are 
not  already? 

Do  you  remember  certain  days  spent  with  another  boy 
on  the  edge  of  an  Homeric  ocean?  Haven't  you  jotted 
down  somewhere  in  your  profuse,  disconnected  notebooks 
particular  words,  phrases,  then  uttered,  later  re-fashioned 
and  elaborated?  words  indicative,  as  nearly  as  words  can 
be,  of  your  ultimate,  felt  destiny?  Yes  .  .  .  destiny  .  .  . 
as  surely  as  the  tripled  note  that  opens  the  profoundly- 
moving  Beethoven  symphony. 

"  A  young  man  came  to  me  with  a  message  from  his  brother  .  .  . 
And  I  answered  for  his  brother  and  for  men  .  .  .  and  I  an 
swered  for  the  poet,  and  sent  these  signs. 

"  Him  all  wait  for,  him  all  yield  up  to ;  his  word  is  decisive. 
Him  they  accept,  in  him  lave;  in  him  perceive  themselves  as 

amid  light. 
Him  they  immerse,  and  he  immerses  them. 

"  Beautiful  women,  the  haughtiest  nations,  laws,  the  landscape, 

people  and  animals, 

The  profound  earth  and  its  attributes,  and  the  unquiet  ocean, 
All  enjoyments  and  properties  .  .  . 

"He  puts  things  in  their  attitudes, 
He  puts  to-day  out  of  himself  with  plasticity  and  love. 
.  .  .  He  is  the  Answerer." 

You,  Walt,  you  in  your  complete  Self  feel  your  unre- 
vealed  capacity!  Yes!  You  know  there  is  in  you  some 
thing  inexhaustible!  Yes!  Something  deathless!  Yes! 
An  Answerer!  Yes!  Yes!  Yes! 

Walt,  you  contain  enough;  why  don't  you  let  it  out  then? 

I  will.    To  the  task,  then;  to  the  destined  role. 

First,  let  me  have  a  clear  understanding  with  my  lesser 


THE   ANSWERER  229 

self,  with  my  human  frailty  and  impatience  and  querulous- 
ness  and  dejection  in  the  face  of  sure  vicissitude.  It  will 
take  years.  It  will  likely  go  unrecognized  and  will  certainly 
go  unrewarded.  .  .  .  What  are  the  requisites? 

Here  is  a  blank  page;  here  a  pencil. 

The  known  universe  has  one  complete  lover  and  that 
is  the  greatest  poet.  .  .  .  The  American  poets  are  to  en 
close  old  and  new  for  America  is  the  race  of  races.  .  .  .  The 
passionate  tenacity  of  hunters,  woodmen,  early  risers,  culti 
vators  of  gardens  and  orchards  and  fields,  the  love  of  healthy 
women  for  the  manly  form,  seafaring  persons,  drivers  of 
horses,  the  passion  for  light  and  the  open  air — all  is  an 
old,  varied  sign  of  the  unfailing  perception  of  beauty  and 
of  a  residence  of  the  poetic  in  outdoor  people.  .  .  .  The 
poetic  quality  is  not  marshalled  in  rime  or  uniformity,  or 
abstract  addresses  to  things,  nor  in  melancholy  complaints 
or  good  precepts.  The  gaggery  and  gilt  of  years  will  not 
prevail.  Who  troubles  himself  about  ornaments  or  fluency 
is  lost.  The  old  red  blood  and  stainless  gentility  of  great 
poets  will  be  proved  by  their  unconstraint . 

This  is  what  you  shall  do:  Love  the  earth  and  sun  and 
the  animals,  despise  riches,  give  alms  to  every  one  that 
asks,  stand  up  for  the  stupid  and  crazy,  devote  your  income 
and  labor  to  others,  hate  tyrants,  argue  not  concerning  God, 
have  patience  and  indulgence  toward  the  people,  take  off 
your  hat  to  nothing  known  or  unknown,  or  to  any  man  or 
number  of  men;  go  freely  with  powerful,  uneducated  per 
sons,  and  with  the  young  and  with  the  mothers  of  families, 
reexamine  all  you  have  been  told  at  school  or  church  or  in 
any  book  and  dismiss  whatever  insults  your  own  soul — 


230  THE   ANSWERER 

And  your  very  flesh  shall  be  a  great  poem  and  have  the 
richest  fluency. 


12 

Of  the  quality  of  pathos  which  Walt  felt  in  the  relation 
existing  between  himself  and  the  wife  of  Raoul  Dumouriez, 
Floride  Dumouriez,  last  of  the  Antoines — excepting  only  a 
juvenile  brother — was  without  awareness.  She  could  not 
know  that  this  delicate  and  intangible  atmosphere,  the 
flavor  rather  than  the  substance  of  emotion,  alone  con 
stituted  the  actual  hold  she  had  upon  her  .  .  .  lover? 
Well,  yes;  as  the  world's  phrase  goes. 

That  this  was  so,  when  she  was  a  woman  and  Walt  was 
a  man,  was  strange,  and  no  doubt  would  have  baffled  a 
spectator  of  their  affair,  had  there  been  any.  There  was 
not;  Floride  saw  to  that.  Servants  she  could  completely 
control,  and  did  with  the  accustomedness  of  one  born  the 
mistress  in  a  servile  society.  But  others,  not  slaves?  The 
one  thing  she  could  not  guard  against  was  a  possibility 
that  some  one  in  the  neighboring  houses  might  observe  the 
repeated  visits  of  one  man  obviously  not  a  member  of 
Creole  society.  Very  well,  let  them  do  so.  A  word  to 
her  vile  husband  would  be  sufficient;  even  if  Raoul  found 
out  the  truth  he  would  certainly  kill  any  one  who  had 
dared  to  proclaim  it — and  all  New  Orleans  knew  that.  If, 
also,  he  decided  to  kill  his  wife,  Floride  would  meet  that 
situation  which,  after  all,  would  have  no  novelty  among 
their  quarrels  unless  through  the  excess  of  his  determina 
tion  and  its  translation  into  actual  or  attempted  violence 


THE   ANSWERER  231 

on  her  person.  .  .  .  Against  such  violence  she  had  long 
been  prepared. 

But  suppose  a  woman  across  the  street  observed  some 
thing  and  whispered  it  about?  Every  woman  across  the 
street,  or  across  any  street,  had  a  husband,  a  brother,  some 
body  close,  to  be  touche.  Raoul's  polite  word,  always  in 
his  curious  falsetto  which  caused  Floride  a  concealed  shiver. 
That  falsetto,  in  her  opinion,  was  the  negre  in  him.  Some 
ancestor  had  been  a  witch  doctor;  but  Raoul  had  his  own 
special  sorceries,  of  the  most  efficacious.  He  was,  despite 
the  misadventure  of  his  encounters  with  some  Irish  Span 
iard  or  other,  a  deadly  duellist;  what  he  did  not  accom 
plish  personally  on  the  champ  d'konneur  was  generally  at 
tended  to  by  his  hired  ruffians  in  the  shadow  of  the  levees. 

These  were  the  carefully  balanced  considerations  on  which 
the  wife  of  Raoul  Dumouriez  placed  her  reliance.  They 
did  not  insure  against  catastrophe  but  they  made  it  seem 
improbable;  and  in  the  event  of  its  befalling  she  did  not 
fear  for  herself  so  much  as  for  Walt.  Why?  He  would 
be  first  among  the  natural  objects  of  her  husband's  ven 
geance.  And — though  she  did  not  doubt  his  personal  cour 
age  or  self-reliance — he  was  outlandishly  impossible  as  the 
antagonist  of  Dumouriez.  In  that  house  on  Royal  Street 
she  could  protect  him,  but  outside — 

In  a  moment  of  relaxed  assurance  over  him,  she  put  to 
Walt  the  question  one  day: 

"  How  would  you  deal  with  my  husband?  Tell  me  ... 
not  that  you  will  have  to;  I  will  see  to  that." 

"I?  I  would  not  deal  with  him  at  all,"  was  the  calm 
answer. 


232  THE   ANSWERER 

"  What?  "  He  was  incomprehensible,  or  else  craven. 
"  Do  you  mean  you  would  run  away?  Or  perhaps  you 
mean  that  you  would  hide  behind  my  skirts?  "  Her  tone 
was  sardonic,  not  angry. 

"  No,  that  would  not  be  necessary,  would  it?  " 

"  It  might  be."  For  his  own  morale,  it  were  best  he 
should  believe  that. 

He  shook  his  head  serenely.    "  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Very  well.  Assume  that  you  are  in  no  danger  in  this 
house,  even  if  he  should  enter  this  room  this  minute.  What 
would  your  life  be  worth  over  the  threshold?  Zat!  "  The 
epitomizing  syllable  vocalized  a  snap  of  her  thumb  and 
finger. 

"  Ma  pauvre  Floride! "  he  exclaimed  with  a  tender 
ness  she  did  not  clearly  understand.  The  few  French 
words  he  picked  up  were,  at  least,  pronounced  beautifully; 
and  his  voice  had  nuances. 

"Ah!  I  see!  You  mean  that,  after  all,  it  is  only  I 
who  would  suffer!  "  was  the  verdict  she  rendered  on  his 
display  of  emotion. 

He  shook  his  head  again ;  and  this  time,  seeing  that  by  no 
simple  ruse — a  spur  rowelling  his  pride — would  she  be  able 
to  draw  him  out,  she  adopted  another  line.  .  .  .  Contin 
ually  she  was  adopting  other  lines,  testing,  trying,  risking, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  desperate  general  who  has  made  • 
a  conquest  and  somehow  cannot  settle  down  and  take  his 
advantage  from  the  dubitable  gain.  .  .  .  She  pleaded: 

"  Cher  ami,  you  must  know  it  is  only  my  powerful  anx 
iety  for  you  that  thus  irritates  me;  making  me  say  things 
I  do  not  mean." 


THE   ANSWERER  233 

In  answer  to  the  arm  placed  about  his  neck,  Walt  kissed 
her.  His  reply  to  her  words,  alone,  might  have  seemed 
less  reassuring. 

"  No  one  says  what  he  means,  does  he,  Floride?  I  don't 
pretend  to.  You  are  unhappy;  I  think  you  are  always 
unhappy.  Why?  You  don't  know.  You  will  never  know." 

Consoled  by  his  caress,  she  received  this  observation 
dreamily  and  with  an  apparent  indifference;  but  after  a 
little,  as  if  his  words  had  suggested  a  train  of  thought, 
she  commenced  to  talk,  half  to  him  and  half  to  her 
self: 

"  No,  I  don't  know  why  I  am  unhappy.  Probably  you 
are  right  in  declaring  I  shall  never  know.  Happiness  comes 
from  within;  but  within  me  there  is  nothing,  is  there? 
Unless  it  is  a  hunger.  ...  I  love  my  young  brother  but 
maybe  -that  is  only  because  I  am  separated  from  him. 
.  .  .  When  I  am  separated  from  you,  I  love  you!  Now, 
at  this  moment,  I  both  love  and  hate  you.  How  is  that? 
Perhaps  you  know?  Comprenez-vous?  " 

"How  foolish  you  are  to  ratiocinate!  "  Walt  told  her. 
"  You  did  much  more  wisely  when  you  took  up  your  posi 
tion  in  the  entrance  downstairs,  that  Sunday,  and  with 
your  invisible  glance,  singled  me  out  from  the  crowd  which 
was  passing.  That  act  was  not  a  reasonable  one;  if  it 
had  been,  it  would  have  had  no  charm  for  you.  Nor  was 
I  a  reasonable  choice  from  among  those  passers-by.  How, 
then,  do  you  expect  what  has  followed,  and  exists,  to  be 
reasonable?  Come,  don't  be  reasonable!  " 

"  It  is  for  your  sake,  not  my  own.  I  have  to  think  of 
you;  I  am  responsible,  if  anything  should  happen." 


234  THE   ANSWERER 

"  Nothing  is  going  to  happen  except  that  some  day,  natur 
ally,  you  will  weary  of  me.  The  oscillation  you  feel — 
first  loving,  then  hating  me — will  die  down.  Quiet  will 
succeed,  and  in  that  quiet  you  will  receive  me  for  a  few 
moments,  or  a  half-hour;  then  we  will  say  au  revoir  as 
usual  but  you  will  omit  to  mention  when  I  am  to  revisit 
you.  And  that  will  be  all." 

"  And  I  shall  be  unhappier  than  ever!  " 
But  immediately  she  exclaimed,  with  conviction: 
"  Here!  You  say  nothing  about  yourself.  Why?  Be 
cause  you  do  not  love  me.  Some  other  woman.  She  has 
taken  from  you  something  I  want  and  should  have — some 
thing  that  would  make  me  happy!  The  first,  sparkling 
freshness  of  your  emotion,  perhaps;  perhaps  the  self- 
deception  which  creates  I'extase  of  the  lover.  She  has  done 
me  a  terrible,  an  irremediable  wrong."  In  French:  "The 
velvety  bloom;  she  had  that!  She  rubbed  it  against  her 
cheek,  carelessly,  and  threw  away  the  petals."  In  English: 
"  Now  I  have  made  the  discovery — not  by  reasoning,  either. 
Oh,  how  awful  for  me!  Don't  you  want  to  know  what 
it  is  I  have  discovered?  " 

"  That  you  don't  love  me,  of  course." 
"  No,  something  different.  .  .  .  Look.  Starved  of  love, 
conducted  into  a  marriage  of  convention,  of  family,  of 
property,  I  have  gone  on  these  years  until  my  suffering, 
my  necessity,  has  perverted  me  ...  made  me  different.  I 
will  illustrate:  It  is  like  an  actor  forced  by  circumstances 
to  play  a  feminine  role.  Only,  reversed!  Behold  myself, 
Floride  Antoine,  driven  by  inner  pressures  to  play  the  mas 
culine  role.  The  aggressor,  yes;  to  the  extent  possible.  I 


THE   ANSWERER  235 

cannot  go  out  in  the  streets,  but  I  can  stand  in  the  shadow 
of  the  foyer.  .  .  .  But  a  role  is  a  role;  one  cannot  play 
it  one  minute  to  abandon  it  the  next;  one  must,  at  the 
very  least,  sustain  it  all  through  that  action.  So,  see! 
What  follows?  Why," — in  French — "  I  become  endued  with 
masculinity  as  a  garment?  Mais,  nonl  The  actor  to  suc 
ceed  must  think,  feel,  his  part."  English:  "  So  with  me. 
I  have  put  myself  in  the  man's  role.  What  the  Rosalind 
of  M.  Shakespeare  did  as  a  protection  and  continued  as 
an  exciting  plaisanterie  is  for  me  desperate  earnest." 

Toward  her,  Walt  was  aware  of  a  new  complication  of 
feeling;  in  her  dramatic  interpretation  of  her  unhappy  role 
she  affected  him  as  did  the  great  actresses  he  had  seen — 
Fanny  Kemble  as  "  Bianca  "  in  Fazio  was  not  a  forced 
comparison  nor  could  his  experience  evoke  a  more  im 
pressive.  .  .  .  She  was  engaged  in  a  task  of  self-interpre 
tation  and  she  was  wholly  sincere;  but  he  saw  now  for 
the  first  time  how  essentially  an  artist  she  was  by  inner 
most  nature.  That  meant,  not  any  least  trace  of  insin 
cerity,  but  a  gift  for  seeing  herself  always  in  mental  mirrors 
— embodied  at  some  greater  or  less  distance  and  lighted  by 
the  artificial  illumination  of  her  desires.  If  the  desires 
gave  out,  were  suddenly  to  be  extinguished,  leaving  her  in 
darkness  .  .  .  she  could  not  go  on,  she  could  not  go 
on. ... 

"My  mistake  is  that  I  see  the  truth!  "  she  uttered 
stormily. 

"  Your  mistake  is  that  I  am  not  great  enough  to  fill  the 
real  role,  dominating,  masculine!  "  he  assured  her,  as  she 
lay  back  in  his  arms.  "  I  ought  to  be  able  to  make  you 


236  THE   ANSWERER 

happy;  I  am  not.  What  you  call  your  mistake  is  a  fault, 
a  lack,  in  me."  .  .  .  Was  this  lying?  His  feeling  toward 
her  dictated  the  words — pity  but  pity  without  condescen 
sion,  the  sense  of  pathos  so  swelled  by  her  mood  to-day, 
a  genuine  tenderness  and  a  thong  by  which  she  was  forever 
drawing  him  to  her.  Lying?  Not  if  feeling  inspired  what 
he  said.  Those  only  lie  who  speak  without  feeling;  pre 
cise  words,  what  do  they  matter?  He  would  recite  any 
creed  that  she  asked  or  the  recitation  of  which,  by  the 
mere  sound  of  his  voice,  might  help  her.  The  real  creed 
would  be  the  inarticulable  tie  that  united  them. 

She  had  a  prophetic  vision  of  her  future. 

"  I  shall  go  on,  as  an  actor  goes  on  who  sees  his  im 
perfections  in  his  role.  Playing  the  same  part,  over  and 
over  again.  The  part  I  am  forced  into  by  something 
insatiable  in  me.  What  is  it?  I  am  no  better  than  an 
adventuress.  But  the  adventuress — what  is  her  adventure? 
Always  she  plays  the  same  part,  the  same  role,  to  extinc 
tion.  Is  that  adventure?  There  is  no  adventure  in  sex, 
for  one  is  always  the  same  sex." 

"  No,"  he  admitted,  "  there  is  no  adventure  in  sex. 
There  is  nothing  of  that  sort;  there  is  only  the  possibility 
of  fulfilment.  For  most  of  the  race." 

"  Fulfilment?  "  she  murmured.  "  What  is  that  word? 
How  can  you  use  it?  It  is  evident  to  me  that  you  do 
not  know  its  meaning  any  more  than  I." 

"  If  you  mean  I  have  not  realized  it,  I  can  say  I  ex 
pect  to." 

"  How?  " — with  controlled  jealousy. 

"Through  you  as  much  as  through  any  one."     Walt 


THE   ANSWERER  237 

was  earnest.  "  Perhaps  more  than  through  any  other  one. 
You  do  not  thwart  or  resist  me.  In  that  there  is  a  lesson. 
You  did  not  seek  to  define  me,  nor  do  you  seek  to  under 
stand  me;  you  did  but  invite  me,  acclaim  me.  In  that 
there  is  a  lesson.  Is  it  meaningless  that  your  eye  singled 
me  out?  is  it  without  significance  that  I  found  you?  Out 
of  the  rolling  ocean,  the  crowd,  came  something  whispered, 
communicated:  1 1  love  you,  before  long  I  die;  you  have 
traveled  a  long  way  merely  that  I  might  look  on  your 
touch  you.  You  could  not  die  till  I  once  had  looked  on 
you.  Now  we  are  safe.  We  have  met,  we  have  touched, 
we  are  safe.'  ...  Is  it  not  so?  And  what  if  again  we 
are  separated  by  the  irresistible  sea?  Every  day,  at  sun 
down,  I  will  salute  the  air,  the  ocean  and  the  land.  And 
every  day,  at  sunrise,  you  will  salute  the  land,  the  air 
and  the  ocean.  Your  eyes  will  be  upon  the  ocean,  the 
crowd.  My  eyes  will  be  upon  the  ocean,  the  crowd.  And 
among  the  men  and  women,  the  multitude,  you  will  per 
ceive  one  picking  you  out  by  secret  and  .  .  .  divine  signs 
.  .  .  acknowledging  none  else — not  parent,  wife,  brother, 
child  as  nearer.  And  from  the  midst  of  the  multitude  I  shall 
perceive  one  picking  me  out,  acknowledging  none  else  so 
near.  Lovers  and  perfect  equals,  discovering  each  other  by 
faint  indirections.  Always  the  mystere,  the  surprise,  the 
delicious  renewal,  the  understanding  passion!  " 

.  .  .  What  has  become  of  happiness-unhappiness,  love- 
hate,  the  sense  of  pathos  and  the  sense  of  equal  pity  in 
this  breathless  communion?  In  the  deep  silence  of  that 
apartment  two  incomparable  actors,  playing  against  each 
other  in  the  deathless  drama,  consummate  their  roles. 


238  THE  ANSWERER 

13 

The  cause  of  the  first  duel  between  Raoul  Dumouriez 
and  the  astonishing  O'Donoju,  though  it  could  not  be  dis 
cussed  by  the  principals,  had  immediately  become  a  matter 
of  general  knowledge  in  New  Orleans.  It  was  that  inci 
dent,  observed  by  Walt  and  so  many  others,  occurring  in 
the  French  market  on  the  Sunday  in  the  course  of  which 
Walt  and  Floride  Dumouriez  had  their  first  meeting.  Had 
not  O'Donoju  smiled,  publicly  and  ingratiatingly,  at  an 
exceptionally  handsome  woman  of  color,  the  belle  of  belles 
at  the  last  Quadroon  Ball?  and  the  placee  of  Raoul  Dumour 
iez?  Dozens  had  seen  the  smile,  the  blankness  of  look 
which  met  it,  and  the  slow,  polite  inclination  of  the  head 
with  which  that  stranger  of  striking  appearance  had 
acknowledged  his  mistake.  Of  all  the  observers,  quite 
possibly  Walt  was  alone  in  not  knowing  that  a  duel  must 
follow.  The  insult  was  deliberate.  Unconscious?  Poujf 
You  say  this  South  American  warrior  did  not  know  she 
was  the  placee  of  Dumouriez?  I  do  not  believe  it;  but 
certainly,  with  une  femme  si  distinguce  he  knew  a  challenge 
would  follow.  But  what  was  that  to  him,  with  a  wrist 
like  lightning.  First  one  of  Dumouriez's  hands,  then  the 
other.  C'est  merveilleux. 

The  fact  was,  despite  sophisticated  pronouncements  to 
the  contrary,  the  gallant  O'Donoju  had  had  no  more  idea 
of  the  identity  of  RaouPs  placee  when  he  saluted  her  with 
his  smile  than  of  fighting  twice  in  the  ensuing  forty-eight 
hours.  It  is  not  certain  that,  knowing  who  she  was,  he 
would  have  acted  differently.  Without  any  other  allusion 


THE   ANSWERER  239 

to  the  affair,  Mile.  Fleurus  observed  to  her  suitor,  some 
days  afterward: 

"  I  suppose,  Jose  amigo,  you  find  a  pretty  face  irre 
sistible." 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment;  said: 

"  For  Dios!  It  never  has  occurred  to  me  that  a  pretty 
face  was  a  thing  to  be  resisted!  " 

Amid  some  laughter,  Walt  exclaimed: 

"  I  wonder  if  O'Donoju  isn't  right?  Non-resistance;  that 
implies  no  temptation.  The  puritan,  he  is  the  fellow  who 
is  always  setting  up  imaginary  temptations.  He's  a  shadow- 
boxer.  He  prays:  'Lead  me  into  temptation  so  I  may 
show  how  easily  I  could  overcome  it  if  it  were  real.'  Along 
comes  a  real  temptation,  sneaks  up  on  him  in  the  rear,  lays 
him  by  the  heels.  A  swift  backward  kick  is  the  best  safe 
guard.  Now,  take  a  mule;  a  mule  is  never  overcome  by 
temptation." 

"Dios!  Make  me  a  mule!  "  implored  O'Donoju,  adding 
reproachfully  to  Jeanne  Fleurus: 

"  But  as  long  as  he  is  your  father,  I  must  not  disable 
him." 

Jeanne  reflected.    In  an  undertone: 

"I  will  make  one  more  effort.     Come  to-night!  " 

Walt,  exchanging  politeness  with  Madame  Fleurus, 
screened  his  question  and  her  answer. 

"  Where?  " 

"Oh  ...  across  Royal  Street?  I  will  slip  into  the  en 
trance  of  any  house  that  happens  to  be  dark;  Casa  Callava 
usually  is.  Nine." 

Immediately  thereafter  the  two  young  men  left,  separ- 


240  THE  ANSWERER 

ating  as  soon  as  they  gained  the  street.  Walt  had  to 
return  to  the  Crescent  office  for  an  hour;  after  dinner  he 
was  to  go  to  Floride  .  .  .  but  that  was  his  and  her  secret. 
O'Donoju,  elated  over  the  prospect  of  the  evening,  rushed 
away  to  make  certain  preparations  for  a  quick  departure 
from  the  city.  He  would  have  Jeanne  with  him  if  he  went; 
if  not,  if  he  stayed,  he  would  have  her  anyway.  All  de 
pended  upon  the  measure  of  her  success  with  Papa  Fleurus 
— amiable  old  embustero!  When  I  am  his  son-in-law,  said 
the  spirited  Jose  to  himself,  I  shall  handle  him  as  he  de 
serves;  I  will  be  perpetually  solicitous  about  his  health,  his 
work  lest  he  overexert  himself;  I  will  make  him  feel  at 
least  ten  years  older,  the  blissid  old  rascal,  for  he  has  made 
me  feel  that  much  older  than  I  am,  meself.  .  .  . 

...  In  the  New  Orleans  of  1848  a  person  with  one- 
eighth  white  blood  was  called  a  sacatra.  One  such,  a  young 
woman  named  Alceste,  a  grandchild  of  the  natural  daughter 
of  the  first  Hippolyte  Antoine,  was  in  a  strict  sense  the 
second  cousin  of  Floride  Dumouriez,  born  Antoine.  The 
two  children  with  a  great-grandfather  in  common  had  grown 
up  together  in  an  intimacy  entirely  unaffected  by  the  fact 
that  one  was  the  mistress  and  the  other  the  slave. 

When,  after  Floride's  marriage  to  Raoul  Dumouriez,  her 
husband  had,  with  no  particular  concealment,  pursued  Al 
ceste,  Floride  had  offered  the  sacatra  her  freedom.  In 
lamentable  distress,  Alceste  had  pleaded  not  to  be  separ 
ated  from  her  mistress;  and  after  hearing  one  or  two  things 
the  girl  was  able  to  tell,  Floride  assented,  giving  her  certain 
instructions.  Thereafter  the  daily  life  proceeded  with  ex 
ternal  smoothness  in  the  Maison  Dumouriez;  following  a 


THE    ANSWERER  24r 

period  of  sulky  fits  the  sang-mele  husband  was  known  to 
have  taken  a  placee  and  to  be  living  with  her  to  the  practi 
cal  desertion  of  his  wife. 

Floride  and  Alceste  continued  to  share  a  secret. 

It  would  keep. 

14 

Equally  to  threats  and  blandishments  Papa  Fleurus  re 
mained  immovable.  Helas!  what  a  parent! 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  die  to  you?  " 

Papa  Fleurus  passed  his  pudgy  hand  over  a  head  ton 
sured  by  nature  and  the  rapid  calculation  of  cargo  profits. 

"  I  want  you  to  die  to  that  young  vagabond,"  he  de 
clared. 

"But  you  can  make  him  your  partner!  " 

"  What?  And  lose  money?  He  cannot  add,  he  can  only 
kill." 

"  Perhaps  he  can  subtract." 

"Enough!      Leave  me.     I  multiply." 

"  Oh,  multiply,  multiply!  ...  I  will  yet  teach  you  how 
to  divide!  " 

She  went  out.  Though  furious  with  him,  Jeanne  was  far 
from  despair.  Always  he  acquiesced  before  facts.  Wishes, 
desires,  emotions,  plans — those  were  not  facts;  she  might 
have  known  they  would  not  stir  him. 

Taking  the  best  of  her  jewels,  as  well  as  a  sum  of  money 
she  had,  and  ascertaining  that  Madame  Fleurus  was  retired 
to  her  chamber,  the  daughter  of  the  importer  who  dealt 
only  with  facts  slipped  quietly  out  of  the  house.  Across 
Royal  Street  she  saw  to  her  surprise  that  Casa  Callava  was 


242  THE   ANSWERER 

brilliantly  lighted.  That  family  of  Spanish  Creoles  must 
have  returned  this  day  to  town  from  Pass  Christian.  How 
ever,  the  entrance  of  the  next  house  was  quite  dark. 

That  was  the  Maison  Dumouriez;  she  didn't  want  to 
go  there.  But  she  had  told  Jose  a  dark  entrance;  all  the 
other  houses  in  the  vicinity  were  well-lighted;  he  would 
pick  out  this  one,  and — what  did  it  matter,  anyway?  It 
was  merely  to  meet;  they  would  depart  together  after  an 
exchange  of  perhaps  six  words. 

A  bell  struck  nine.  Jose  would  be  waiting,  in  a  fever 
of  impatience. 

Jeanne  crossed  the  street  and  passed  under  the  shadowy 
archway.  Silence.  No  one  stepped  forward,  with  an  eager 
question.  ...  It  was  strange;  and  she  felt  a  chill  of  dis 
appointment.  But  something  had  detained  him.  He  would 
be  here  in  a  trifle,  in  no  time  at  all! 

She  stepped  back  a  little  further  into  the  cloak  of 
shadow;  and  immediately  trod  on  something.  ...  At  once 
she  knew  it  was  a  human  body;  recoiling  against  the  wall 
of  the  passage  she  stood  for  a  full  moment,  arms  outstretched 
to  stay  her  from  falling,  the  palms  of  her  hands  against 
the  cold  stone.  A  faint  sound,  half-groan  half-sigh,  brought 
her  suddenly  to  her  knees.  She  crouched  over  this  .  .  . 
(but  he  was  not  dead!)  .  .  .  and  despite  the  shuddering 
revulsion  that  controlled  her  body  her  fingers  persisted  in 
exploring  the  face  .  .  .  they  touched  the  peculiarly-shaped 
military  chapeau  with  its  raised  embroidery  of  gold  lace — 

"Jose!  " 

That  cry,  hardly  distinct  or  piercing  enough  to  attract 
attention  above  the  murmur  of  the  flowing  street,  was  re- 


THE   ANSWERER  243 

ceived  with  acoustical  courtesy  by  the  vaulted  walls  and 
impassively  conducted  up  the  entrance  staircase  of  stately 
width  and  a  certain  ornate  grandeur. 

15 

Well  before  nine,  O'Donoju  arriving  in  Royal  Street  and 
mindful  of  Jeanne's  directions  had  made  for  the  Casa  Cal- 
lava  only  to  stop  short  on  observing  that  house's  high 
degree  of  illumination.  He  looked  about — just  as,  so  little 
later,  Jeanne  herself  was  to  do — and  noticed  that  the  house 
next  door,  belonging  to  Dumouriez,  was  dark;  also  that 
no  other  house  was  dark.  The  thought  of  Dumouriez's 
entrance  as  a  place  for  his  rendezvous  with  Mile.  Fleurus 
was  distasteful;  but  he  shrugged  off  the  feeling.  Time 
was  short;  Jeanne  would  look  for  him,  and,  in  the  circum 
stances,  he  would  have  no  excuse  if  he  failed  to  obey  her 
word  literally. 

Quickly,  without  noise,  he  entered  the  enemy's  archway. 
At  once  Floride  Dumouriez,  waiting  there  for  Walt,  glided 
toward  him  from  the  wall  just  beyond  the  staircase,  taking 
his  arm.  O'Donoju  wheeled;  spoke. 

"Oui,  Jeanne—" 

Floride,  realizing  her  mistake  almost  before  he  spoke, 
shrank  back,  with  difficulty  checking  a  cry  of  dismay.  In 
surprise  O'Donoju,  after  a  slight  hesitation,  advanced  to 
ward  her.  It  was  not  Jeanne  .  .  .  but  if  it  was  not  Jeanne, 
who,  then  .  .  .  ?  The  idea  that  the  mistress  of  that  house 
could  be  waiting  there  in  the  dark  was,  of  course,  outside 
the  range  of  instant  conjecture. 

Floride  had  understood  earlier  in  the  day  that  her  hus- 


244  THE   ANSWERER 

band  had  left  New  Orleans.  This  was  false.  Raoul  Du- 
mouriez,  seized  with  a  sudden  whim,  had  decided  that 
evening  to  stay  in  town  instead  of  going  to  Charleston  for 
the  races.  The  whim  had  ramified  unexpectedly,  as  whims 
have  a  way  of  doing,  into  an  offhand  resolution  to  return 
to  Royal  Street,  surprise  his  wife  and  perhaps  smooth  over 
things  with  her  a  little,  outwardly  at  any  rate.  Who  knew? 
a  reconciliation  might  even  be  possible.  The  sang-mele  had 
unlimited  faith  in  his  power  to  cajole  women  and  amuse 
himself  while  doing  so.  ...  Besides,  lately  his  beautiful 
placee  had  been  altogether  tiresome,  too  anxious  to  please. 
•If  Floride  had  a  merit,  it  was  variety,  even  in  coldness,  even 
in  arctic  anger.  .  .  . 

As  Dumouriez  turned  into  the  dark  entrance  of  his 
house  he  heard,  in  the  unmistakable  voice  of  his  wife,  a 
voice  now  sharp  with  fright,  the  words: 

"No!     No!     Leave  me  alone.     You — " 

There  was  some  man  there  with  her.  .  .  .  With  a  leap, 
the  sang-mele  was  against  him.  A  violent  struggle  ensued 
in  the  darkness,  a  furious  and  merciless  encounter  with 
not  a  word  spoken.  Only  the  desperate  gasps  of  those 
men  came  from  their  throats.  But  even  that  sound  did 
not  last.  The  husband  of  Floride  Dumouriez  never  went 
unarmed.  As  if  reserved  to  show  its  efficacy  under  these 
very  special  circumstances,  the  handy  poniard,  lifted  from 
a  sheath  elaborately  chased,  passed  swiftly  between  two 
ribs  of  the  South  American  general,  a  gauche,  and  was  with 
drawn  with  equal  deftness.  Resistance  ceased;  the  con 
tending  figure  crumpled  quickly. 

Raoul  Dumouriez  stood  up.    This  Irish  animal — ah,  oui! 


THE   ANSWERER  245 

he  knew  him! — was  dead.  He  looked  about  but  Floride 
had  disappeared.  Where?  Up  the  staircase,  or  outside  in 
the  street?  Should  he  enter  the  house,  find  her,  and — ? 
Her  words  had  been:  "  Leave  me  alone."  They  made  her 
sound  blameless;  but  how  came  she  down  here  in  the 
passage,  in  darkness,  with  a  man?  with  any  man?  .  .  . 
Well,  it  was  important  to  get  men  to  remove  this  corpse, 
his  men  who  would  do  their  job,  whisper  nothing  and  re 
member  nothing.  That,  first.  Later  he  could  return  and 
settle  with  Floride.  She  could  say  nothing.  And  he  was 
happy  to  have  slain  this  .  .  .  vermin  of  a  soldier.  But 
now,  to  business.  He  paused,  leaving  the  entrance,  saying 
in  French  with  a  low  laugh: 

"  Wait,  little  dead  brute.  I  return  at  once  with  those 
who  will  drop  you  in  the  Mississippi  ...  for  a  voy 
age  .  .  ." 

16 

As  soon  as  the  two  men  grappled,  Floride  got  away.  .  .  . 

She  recognized  in  the  second  comer  Raoul,  whom,  she 
had  been  certain,  was  leaving  that  day  for  Charleston. 
Who  the  man  that  had  so  frightened  her  might  be,  she 
didn't  know,  nor  now  care.  The  thing  was:  Raoul  was 
back,  back!  and,  at  any  moment,  Walt  might  appear.  .  .  . 

The  impulse  to  run  out  in  the  street,  run  to  meet,  to 
ward  off  Walt,  she  stamped  on.  That  would  spare  nobody 
and  would  bring  instant  disclosure.  .  .  .  Raoul  would  come 
upon  them  unless  this  other  person  killed  him.  Then, 
perhaps,  they  would  be  all  right;  no  casual  intruder  could 
be  half  so  dangerous  as  Raoul.  She  must —  What  must 


246  THE   ANSWERER 

she  do?    What  could  she  do  but  wait,  watch  fearfully  to 
see — 

A  swift  movement  placed  her  part  the  way  up  the  stair 
case,  in  deeper  darkness,  where  she  might  gather  the  issue 
of  that  terrible  struggle.  Her  heart  pounded,  she  held  her 
breath.  But  it  was  soon  over  (Raoul  must  have  knifed  him) 
and  then,  briefly,  she  saw  her  husband  silhouetted  in  the 
lighter  shadow  where  the  entrance  gave  on  the  sidewalk; 
heard  his  voice,  that  horrible  falsetto,  in  a  contemptuous 
promise. 

"Wait  ...  I  return  at  once  .  .  ." 

He  had  gone.    Now — 

What,  now?  If  Walt  walked  in,  no  harm  would  come  to 
him.  He  would  turn  at  once  to  the  staircase;  with  a  clasp 
and  a  whisper  she  could  draw  him  up  with  her  to  the  rooms 
above  ...  or  she  could  take  his  arm  and  they  could  leave 
quickly  together;  could  go  far,  oh  far!  from  this  wretched 
place. 

She  was  not  thinking  of  the  man  lying  in  the  entrance; 
it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  he  was  matter  for  concern.  He 
was  dead.  Raoul  had  said  so;  besides,  this  was  not  new 
work  with  Raoul  who,  in  the  attenuated  strain  of  negre 
that  was  in  him,  seemed  to  preserve  an  undiminished  fer 
ocity,  the  concentrated  trait  of  innumerable  remote  ancestors 
of  a  barbarousness  without  parallel. 

How  the  minutes  fled!  She  had  a  feeling  that  time  was 
rushing  past  with  dreadful  rapidity,  as  if  the  neck  of  an 
hourglass,  suddenly  swelling,  were  letting  all  the  sands 
through.  How  long  must  she  wait?  How  long  could  she 
safely  wait?  .  .  .  But  her  sense  of  the  passage  of  time 


THE   ANSWERER  247 

was  obliterated;  she  did  not  know  whether  five  or  fifteen 
minutes  had  passed.  Oh,  hurry,  hurry,  Walt!  If,  in  one 
moment  more,  you  do  not  come,  I  must  fall  back  on  Alceste; 
even  that,  since  they  will  not  know  where  to  find  Raoul, 
may  miscarry.  One  more  moment.  .  .  . 

A  figure  glided  quickly  into  the  entrance.  But,  no!  this 
was  a  woman!  A  woman!  Dieu!  what  new  complica 
tion — 

"Jose!  " 

The  piteous  cry  of  Jeanne  Fleurus  came  distinctly  to 
Floride,  hovering  on  the  staircase.  It  explained  much. 
This,  then,  was  the  woman  whom  that  fellow  had  been 
looking  for,  mistaking  the  house.  How  horrible!  Floride 
had  not  caught  the  faint  sound  made  by  the  wounded 
O'Donoju  when  Jeanne's  foot  stumbled  on  him.  Now  she 
heard  from  the  kneeling  Jeanne: 

"  Jose!  .  .  .  You  are  alive,  at  least.  Oh,  what  has  hap 
pened  here?  ..." 

With  these  words,  arriving  tardily,  Walt,  turning  into 
the  entrance,  stopped  dead,  with  an  exclamation  of  aston 
ishment. 

"Hello!     What—?" 

17 

He  struck  a  match,  saw  by  the  flare  the  prone  O'Donoju 
and  as  if  obeying  a  swift  and  automatic  instinct  had  the 
Irishman  in  his  arms  and  was  bearing  him  up  the  stair 
case.  Jeanne  and  Floride  followed,  clinging  to  each  other 
with  a  mutual  suffocation  of  explanation  from  which  Floride 
emerged  long  enough  to  call: 


248  THE   ANSWERER 

"  Alceste!    Alceste!    La  lumiere!  " 

From  above  the  sacatra  answered,  lamps  were  lit  and 
Walt  carried  his  burden  to  the  large  sofa. 

"  A  physician?  " 

But  Floride  had  already  despatched  Alceste  "on  an  er 
rand — vital."  Jeanne  Fleurus  said: 

"  I  will  go  across  to  our  house  and  send  one  of  the 
servants.  If  he  can  be  moved,  may  he  not  be  brought 
over  there?  " 

It  seemed  doubtful  what  the  doctor  would  say.  "  At 
least,  I  shall  hear  to-night  how  he  is?  "  Jeanne  entreated 
Walt.  He  answered  with  quick  emphasis,  and  on  that 
"  Yes-yes !  "  she  hurried  out. 

Walt  looked  carefully  at  the  bared  breast.  A  clean 
wound  with  extroverted  edges  showed  where  the  poniard 
had  entered;  there  was  little  or  no  bleeding.  He  murmured: 
"  Doesn't  look  bad,"  adding:  "  But  I'm  no  medico."  Flor 
ide  looked  without  flinching;  then,  over  the  body  of  the 
unconscious  O'Donoju,  her  eyes  and  Walt's  met. 

His  look  gave  her  what  she  needed. 

Rapidly,  in  an  undertone,  without  removing  her  eyes 
from  his,  she  condensed  the  incidents  of  the  half-hour,  con 
cluding: 

"  So  he  will  be  back.  At  any  moment.  You  under 
stand?  " 

"You'd  rather  I'd  go  away?  Is  that  it?  No  .  .  .no; 
I  can't  do  that." 

"Why  not?  I  tell  you,  I  can  deal  with  him.  I  have 
begun  already  to  deal  with  him.  Alceste,  she  has  gone, 
she  has  gone  to — " 


THE   ANSWERER  249 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  mysteriously;  then,  changing  the 
course  of  her  persuasion,  said: 

"  Besides,  there  is  no  need  of  involving  you,  of  his 
knowing  that  you — " 

"Hush!  " 

Voices  below.  Then  a  silence  and  the  sound  of  one 
man's  steps  ascending  the  staircase.  Floride  made  a  ges 
ture,  incomplete;  Walt  had  the  sense  of  her  wanting  to 
wring  her  hands  and  not  knowing  just  how.  .  .  .  She  had 
time  for  a  whisper: 

"  Let  me  talk  ...  at  first  .  .  .  me!9 

The  head  and  shoulders  of  Raoul  Dumouriez  appeared. 
He  took  in  the  scene,  halting  at  the  top  of  the  flight.  On 
his  face  there  was  an  absence  of  expression  which  permitted 
Walt  to  observe  the  over-perfection  of  the  finely-chiseled 
features,  the  straightness  and  silkiness  of  the  small  black 
mustache  and  the  weird  effect  of  what  at  first  appeared  to 
be  a  head  of  closely-cropped  silky  black  hair.  Amazed  at 
this  hair,  Walt  could  not  keep  his  eyes  off  it  and  finally 
he  saw  the  peculiar  phenomenon.  Not  close  cropping  but 
an  arrested  growth  made  the  head  resemble  that  of  a  few- 
weeks'-old  infant,  dark  and  downy;  the  skin  of  the  scalp 
was  drawn  with  preternatural  tightness  like  the  head  of 
a  drum  and  the  hair  had  with  difficulty  struggled  through 
in  a  growth  destined  to  remain  forever  pre-adolescent.  For 
the  rest,  with  his  half-dropped  lids,  the  sang-mele  looked 
distinctly  sleepy. 

He  stood,  looking  at  his  wife,  at  Walt  and  at  the  ex 
tended  O'Donoju  without  a  trace  of  any  emotion.  Floride 
spoke  smoothly: 


250  THE  ANSWERER 

"  With  the  help  of  this  gentleman,  I  have  brought  our 
intruder  up  here.  A  doctor  has  been  sent  for,  as  he  still 
breathes." 

"  Merci."  The  husband  blinked  an  indifferent  acknowl 
edgment  to  Walt.  "  I  have  some  men  below.  We  can 
take  him  away,  to  the  hospital." 

He  advanced  a  step.    Walt  spoke. 

"  It  will  not  do  to  move  him  until  the  doctor  has  seen 
him." 

A  shrug  was  the  only  answer  as  Dumouriez  resumed 
his  advance. 

"  You  are  not  to  touch  him,"  said  Walt,  coming  in  front 
of  O'Donoju. 

The  sang-mele  stopped,  with  his  half-awake  glance  tak 
ing  in  the  details  of  this  casual  stranger.  Lithe,  compact, 
strongly-knit — yes;  but  easily  overpowered  by  a  call  down 
stairs.  ...  In  a  mincing  voice  turned  suddenly  falsetto 
Dumouriez  observed: 

"  I  am  quite  capable  of  taking  you  to  the  hospital  with 
him,  mon  ami,  or — to  the  morgue." 

"  Oh,  damn  you,"  was  Walt's  verbal  answer,  completed 
by  an  action  he  seemed  to  himself  to  perform  intuitively, 
with  perfect  carelessness.  He  squarely  turned  his  back 
on  the  sang-mele.  As  he  bent  over  O'Donoju,  looking  with 
real  anxiety  for  some  trace  of  reviving  consciousness,  he 
was  conscious  of  a  division  in  himself  which  he  found  ex 
tremely  bizarre.  In  these  circumstances.  .  .  .  Not  that  I 
have  not  before  this,  times  and  other  times,  felt  myself 
two  selves;  but  now,  faced  with  an  actual  danger,  risk, 
emergency  (what  you  will)  the  concealed  self  is  my  boss. 


THE   ANSWERER  251 

The  usual  self  is  roped  and  bound;  is  scared  to  death  but 
looks  helplessly  on  while  I  coolly  offer  my  back  to  this 
.  .  .  rattlesnake. 

Beside  him  Walt  could  hear  Floride's  quickened  breath 
ing.  But  from  behind  came  no  sound.  .  .  .  O'Donoju  was 
still  unconscious.  ...  In  a  matter-of-fact  manner,  Walt 
straightened  up  and  faced  easily  about.  The  husband  of 
Floride  had  made  no  move  but,  with  eyes  almost  completely 
closed,  mere  slits,  seemed  to  be  thinking.  As  Walt  turned, 
he  said: 

"  I  shall,  of  course,  kill  you  for  that  insult.  At  a  more 
proper  time — " 

In  the  grip  of  the  self-he-didn't-know,  Walt  found  him 
self  interrupting  with  a  dangerous  fluency  of  answer. 

"  Kill  me?  Doubtless  you  think  so.  At  a  proper  time, 
eh?  Why,  what  time  could  be  more  proper  than  the  pres 
ent?  Go — or  come — right  ahead.  Here  I  am;  here  I  have 
been  now  for  several  convenient  moments.  If  I  am  a  little 
difficult,  why,  there  is  your  gang  downstairs.  After  you 
have  killed  me  you  can  finish  killing  him  " — motioning  to 
ward  O'Donoju.  "You  can  then  kill  your  wife;  you  can 
kill  the  doctor  when  he  comes.  One  by  one,  or  a  dozen  at 
a  time,  you  can  kill  any  others.  Kill?  You  damned  fool! 
What  can  you  kill?  One  man  against  the  world!  Why,  if 
I  threw  you  down  the  staircase  to  that  pack  of  vermin, 
they'd  tear  you  limb  from  limb ;  you've  taught  them  to  kill ! 
Shucks!  Get  out!  " 

The  rattlesnake  should  be  wholly  the  rattlesnake;  it  is 
a  fatal  mistake  for  it  to  possess  any  other  wisdom  than 
that  of  the  serpent.  A  sense  of  something  beyond  the 


252  THE   ANSWERER 

reach  of  its  strike  or  not  sure  to  succumb  to  its  venom  is 
fatal.  Coil,  rattle,  strike!  is  the  only  safeguard,  in  linked 
and  unhesitating  action.  No  man  can  imitate  the  superb 
automatism  of  the  snake.  A  man's  purpose  is  always  and 
incessantly  strengthening  or  weakening  his  arm.  Swift  are 
the  muscles;  thought  is  swifter.  And  thought  is  at  the 
mercy  of  emotion — of  pride,  of  anger,  of  doubt,  of  fear, 
of  humiliation,  of  the  sense  of  compared  powers  and  com 
parative  weakness,  of  possible  failure.  .  .  .  When,  after  the 
coiled  rattle,  Walt  spoke  his  careless  "  damn  you!  "  the 
rattlesnake  had  failed  to  strike,  arrested  in  action  for  the 
briefest  second  by  the  emotion  of  profound  surprise.  A 
second!  at  the  end  of  which  the  faultless  opportunity  was 
lost  forever.  It  would  never  come  again;  a  lesser  oppor 
tunity  might,  a  greater  opportunity  might;  but  this  one, 
never. 

The  intrusion  of  thought — and  surprise  is  an  emotion 
which  gives  instant  birth  to  thought — placed  the  sang-mele 
at  an  insuperable  disadvantage.  The  intuitive- Walt  which 
had  sprung  forward  in  the  crisis  had  taken  further  advan 
tage,  or,  if  you  like,  had  increased  its  initial  advantage, 
by  mixing  with  the  authentic  scorn  of  its  heaped  insults 
more  food  for  thought.  "What  can  you  kill?  One  man 
against  the  world!  "  Food  for  thought?  yes,  but  arsenic 
for  action. 

Dumouriez  had  the  sense  of  something  moving  out  of  his 
reach.  It  was  heightened,  fixed,  by  Floride's  behavior. 

Except  for  breath  more  quickly  drawn,  she  had  remained 
during  the  exchanges  immobile,  at  the  foot  of  the  sofa 
on  which  lay  the  oblivious  O'Donoju.  She  had  been  stand- 


THE   ANSWERER  253 

ing.  Now  suddenly  she  arranged  a  ruffle  of  lace  on  the 
bosom  of  her  dress  and,  as  Walt  concluded  his  contemp 
tuous  interruption  with  the  words:  "  Shucks!  Get  out!  " 
— she  laughed.  A  low  laugh  of  secure  amusement. 

"  No!  "  she  exclaimed,  astoundingly.  "  Don't  go.  Don't 
go,  mon  Raoul.  Why  should  you  withdraw  from  your  own 
house?  .  .  .  But  it  would  be  pleasanter  if  you  would  send 
away  those  people  downstairs." 

Voices  came  from  below;  Dumouriez  moved  irresolutely, 
but  before  he  had  decided  anything  a  man  appeared  on 
the  staircase,  the  summoned  physician.  The  scene  was 
ended.  Alceste  appeared  suddenly  and  was  sent  for  hot 
water,  restoratives.  .  .  .  Dumouriez,  going  to  the  head  of 
the  stairs  gave  a  sulky  order;  his  "  people  "  could  be  heard 
leaving. 

"  Move  him?  Under  no  conditions,  except  to  a  bed," 
said  peremptorily  the  physician.  "  Come,  I  will  help  you 
with  that."  He  added,  still  bent  over  the  sofa:  "Close 
to  the  heart.  But  as  long  as  he  does  not  start  bleeding 
.  .  .  safe  enough  in  a  few  days." 

He  gathered  up  O'Donoju  very  carefully  in  his  arms. 
As  Alceste  conducted  him  to  one  of  the  bedrooms,  Walt 
turned  to  Floride. 

"  I  must  go  over  and  tell  Mile.  Fleurus.  She'll  be  anx 
ious." 

He  started  for  the  staircase,  followed  by  a  malignant 
look  from  behind  the  dropped  lids  of  Raoul  Dumouriez. 
At  the  same  instant  a  commotion  rose  suddenly  from 
below;  feet  swarmed  on  the  stairs,  and  Walt  stood  back 
in  astonishment.  A  band  of  perhaps  a  dozen  white  men 


254  THE  ANSWERER 

came  welling  up  the  wide  flight  with  stern  faces  and  vigilant 
eyes. 

"  There  he  is!  There's  Dumouriez!  Surround  him!  " 
They  sprang  about  him  in  a  circle,  the  falsetto  cry  rang 
out  like  the  squeal  of  a  cornered  rat,  and  a  strong  arm 
clutched  the  wrist  that  held  the  bared  poniard,  clutched 
it,  turned  it  inward  with  a  slow,  remorseless,  vise-like  action. 
The  knife  dropped;  in  the  grip  of  a  dozen  hands  they 
bore  him  to  the  floor.  Steel  clamped  the  wrists  and  a 
rope  knotted  the  ankles.  Without  explanation,  brushing 
past  Walt,  they  dragged  him  with  them,  his  hobbled  feet 
thumping  the  broad,  descending  treads. 

Walt  looked  at  Floride.  She  had  sunk  on  the  sofa,  eyes 
closed.  His  startled  eye  went  back  to  the  exit  through 
which  the  doctor  had  passed,  carrying  O'Donoju.  In  that 
doorway  stood  the  sacatra  Alceste,  lips  parted,  white  teeth 
gleaming. 

18 

The  explanation?  Walt  never  obtained  an  explanation. 
No  one  appeared  to  know  or  have  heard  what  had  become 
of  Raoul  Dumouriez.  At  any  allusion  to  him  men  remarked 
that  they  hadn't  "  seen  him  lately  " — and  talked  of  some 
thing  else.  To  Jeanne  Fleurus,  later  that  evening,  Walt 
had  told  what  happened.  And  she  had  said: 

"  Forget  that  you  were  there.  That  is  the  best  thing 
you  can  do,  muy  amigo.  Do  not  mention  your — delusion — 
to  any  one  else.  That  might — " 

She  broke  off.    "  I  must  visit  Jose  to-morrow." 

Floride  would  say  only: 


THE   ANSWERER  255 

"  Nothing  took  place,  my  Walt.  But  Dumouriez  will 
be  a  long  time  absent.  Come  any  time!  " 

He  could  not  have  questioned  Alceste,  even  had  he  con 
templated  asking  the  slave  what  the  mistress  would  not 
tell.  The  sacatra  spoke  nothing  but  a  dialect- French. 

Madison  Slocomb,  sounded  cautiously,  appeared  to  know 
no  more  than  that  "  Dumouriez  hasn't  been  around  lately. 
At  Charleston,  maybe."  Eugene  Fuller  was  a  blank. 
Finally,  feeling  that  he  could  trust  him,  Walt  took  Traubel 
to  some  extent  into  his  confidence. 

The  studious  German  listened  carefully,  under  a  pledge 
of  silence,  to  a  peculiar  occurrence  Walt  had  "  heard  about." 
Walt  named  the  victim,  however,  "  that  sang-mele,  Dumour 
iez." 

"So!  "  said  Traubel  at  last.  "  This  must  be  another 
of  your  strange  American  institutions.  And  no  one  admits 
knowing  anything  about  it!  That  is  like  Russia  under 
the  Tsars,  or  like  France  in  the  days  of  the  Bastille.  I 
can  only  make  a  guess.  Since  the  Nat  Turner  rebellion 
in  Virginia — how  long  ago?  Wasn't  it  in  1831? — when,  as 
I  read,  sixty-one  whites  were  killed — " 

"  I  remember.  That  slave  insurrection.  I  was  a  boy. 
But  Nat  Turner  was  a  negro." 

"  Perhaps,  in  his  heart,  Dumouriez  was  not  more  than 
one- sixty- fourth  white." 

Reflecting  on  this  afterward,  Walt  found  himself  unable 
to  agree.  Yet  it  was  quite  possible  that  in  his  scheming 
the  sang-mele  had  been  willing  and  had  made  plans  to 
identify  himself  with  the  blacks  (as  their  leader  and  almost 
a  white)  .  .  .  ultimately.  For  what  purpose?  Some  fan- 


256  THE   ANSWERER 

tastic  idea  of  dominion,  perhaps  —  of  empire  .  .  .  Hayti  .  .  . 
Touissant  L'Ouverture.  It  must  be.  Fact  or  suspicion; 
either;  and  the  smile  of  a  watching  sacatra. 


Momentous  hour!   that  had  molded  several  lives. 

For  on  the  day  after  his  wounding  Jeanne  Fleurus  was 
married  to  Jose  O'Donoju  as  the  Irish  adventurer  lay, 
still  but  ecstatic,  in  the  house  of  his  enemy;  the  hand  of 
Papa  Fleurus  was  forced.  Torn  from  his  arithmetic  and 
percentages  of  profit,  the  importer  was  confronted  with  the 
fait  accompli;  as  always,  he  acquiesced  before  a  Fact.  He 
did  more,  he  made  the  best  of  it.  A  case  of  his  rarest, 
earliest  importation  was  transferred  across  Royal  Street 
and  there  opened. 

"  Sure,  'tis  a  treasure  of  jewels  cased  in  cobwebs,"  said 
poetically  the  South  American  general  as  the  contents  were 
held  aloft  for  his  view. 

"  And  each  drop  shall  be  set  in  crystal,"  laughed  Madame 
O'Donoju,  as  a  house-servant  appeared  with  glasses.  She 
held  high  her  thin-stemmed  chalice,  proposing  a  toast: 

"  To  the  worldly  success  of  Fleurus  &  O'Donoju." 

"  What?  " 

"  You  are  to  be  Papa's  partner  in  business." 

"  You  mean  he  has  consented  to  become  my  partner  in 
bankruptcy." 

"  Well—  for  better,  for  worse!  " 

"  Faith,  I  see.  You  have  taken  me  for  better  and  he 
for  worse." 

They  laughed.    Jeanne  said: 


THE   ANSWERER  257 

"  It  is  your  turn  to  offer  a  toast." 

Jose  lifted  his  glass,  containing  the  remainder  of  what 
the  physician  would  allow  him. 

"  To  the  spiritual  success  of  O'Donoju  &  Fleurus!  " 

His  convalescence  caused  the  doctor  the  greatest  amaze 
ment. 

"Humph!     Going  to  settle  down  now,  I  hope?" 

"  Soon  as  ever  I've  settled  up  with  me  friends,  the 
Colorados.  I'll  become  their  North  American  financial 
agent — how's  that?  Can  an  Irishman  become  a  banker? 
Would  ye  predict  success  in  so  unprecedented  an  under 
taking?  " 

"  An  Irish  arm  and  a  French  purse  will  win  at  anything 
except  roulette." 

"Bueno!" 

.  .  .  Hour  that  molded  lives!  And  the  other  half  of 
the  mold? 

Floride  had  seen  a  Walt  new  to  her  (new,  had  she 
known  it,  to  Walt  himself) — a  Walt  who  could  say  in 
differently  to  the  menace  of  Raoul  Dumouriez:  "  Damn 
you!  "...  and  calmly  turn  his  back.  A  revelation?  Per 
haps.  She  had  thought  she  fully  understood  the  nature  of 
the  man;  he  was  her  lover,  made  so  by  her  own  mysterious 
action,  by  the  unsubdued  will  of  her  powerful  personality 
no  longer  latent  nor  concealed.  He  was  her  lover,  yes;  and 
he  was  also  what  she  admired  with  the  largest  measure 
of  intellectual  admiration  contained  in  her  feminine  nature: 
He  was  an  actor,  natural-born  and  with  a  tremendous  gift. 
Once  or  twice  she  had  heard  him  use  the  expression  "  nat 
ural  persons,"  and  the  expression  secretly  delighted  her. 


258  THE  ANSWERER 

Of  course!  He  was  a  natural  person;  but  what  was  a 
natural  person?  Not  a  mere  animal,  to  be  sure;  no. 
But  a  perfectly-endowed  actor.  Yes,  that  was  it.  A  man 
differed  from  an  animal  in  having  an  intelligence  which 
made  him  capable  of  seeing  himself  in  a  role.  No  animal 
could  see  itself  in  a  role.  No  man  could  help  so  seeing 
himself,  at  moments,  anyway.  And  the  gifted  man,  the 
natural  person,  saw  himself  so  at  all  times,  but  without 
perturbation,  without  undue  self-consciousness,  without  em 
barrassment  or  inner  stage-fright.  En  effet,  this  peculiar 
and  constant  vision  enabled  him  to  lose  all  self-conscious 
ness  at  almost  every  hour  of  his  life,  and,  thus  freed, 
act  his  part  to  the  richest  extent  of  his  powers.  So  ana 
lyzed,  Walt  was  truly  the  most  natural  person,  the  most 
accomplished  actor,  she  had  ever  known. 

And  herself,  she  was,  she  considered,  an  actress  of  no 
mean  ability,  in  this  deeper  sense  that  she  was  defining. 
But  what  chance  had  she  had,  before  Walt's  advent,  to 
display  her  true  powers?  Those  were  of  a  predominantly 
emotional  character;  but  what  was  the  expression  of  emo 
tions  which  did  not  include  love?  Disordered  music,  with 
out  key,  without  tonality.  And  whom  had  she  had  to  love? 
That  distant  young  brother,  with  the  phase  of  love  which 
is  merely  an  immense  tenderness,  like  a  gentle  melody  in 
tended  to  be  no  more  than  the  embellishment  of  a  major 
theme.  It  was  like  having  to  construct  a  sonata  out  of  a 
handful  of  grace-notes. 

Nor  would  a  sonata,  the  composition  for  a  single  instru 
ment,  be  what  she  wanted;  nothing  less  than  symphonic 
proclamation  would  suffice  for  her  "  content " — what  she 


THE   ANSWERER  259 

had  for  outpouring.  It  was  even  doubtful  to  her  whether 
any  man  or  any  number  of  men  or  all  of  her  lifetime  would 
serve  adequately  for  the  fullest  manifestation,  the  richest 
proclamation  of  what  she  believed  to  be  herself.  And  yet, 
in  Walt,  she  had  found,  at  the  very  outset,  a  man,  just 
one  single  man,  who  seemed  to  give  her  inexhaustible  oppor 
tunity.  .  .  .  She  had  begun  to  have  a  suspicion  that  all  his 
variety,  all  his  resource  had  been  displayed  in  her  drama 
when  an  unforeseen  crisis  arising  gave  him  the  chance  to 
astonish  her.  Mon  brave!  But  it  was  not  for  his  bravery 
that  she  freshly  adored  him;  it  was  his  wonderful  piece  of 
histrionism  in  the  quick  turn  of  his  role. 

He  had  secrets,  then,  recesses  which  she  had  not  fath 
omed.  .  .  . 

"  How  could  you  do  that?  "  she  asked  Walt,  frankly  giv 
ing  him  in  her  voice  and  look  the  praise  of  incomprehension. 
"To  say  that — and  then  to  turn  your  back!  " 

The  bearded  young  man  smiled;  when  he  smiled  it  was 
with  a  burst  of  sunlight  from  the  gray-blue  eyes.  Oddly, 
his  beard  had  not  the  effect  of  ageing  him;  did  not  hide 
the  square,  generous  chin.  Nor  did  the  mustache  weaken  the 
mouth,  so  wide,  full-lipped  and  red-lipped,  so  expressive  of 
what  Walt  had  once  called  himself  in  talking  with  her, 
"  the  caresser  of  life."  A  mouth  sensuous  but  not  sensual, 
capable  of  smacking  the  lips  over  a  relished  savor  but  in 
capable  of  lighting  the  eyes  with  the  light  of  greed.  In 
fact,  as  Floride  observed,  the  lower  half  of  that  face  was 
merely  sensuous,  eager,  innocent  and  young;  but  undis- 
tinctive  (it  might  have  belonged  to  any  man)  and  uncon- 
trolling.  What  controlled  and  distinguished  was  above  a 


26o  THE   ANSWERER 

line  drawn  in  the  plane  of  the  upper  lip — the  vigorous  nose 
with  wide  nostrils,  high  cheekbones  and  remarkable  eyes 
with  well-pronounced  and  well-arched  brows  and  the  really 
dominating  forehead  with  the  black  hair  tumbling  back  from 
it  as  a  wave  ruffles  back  from  the  wall  of  the  shore. 

"  Don't  give  me  any  credit!  "  he  instructed  her.  "Was 
it  I  you  saw?  Maybe  that  was  the  real  '  I,'  but  the  usual 
1 1 '  didn't  have  anything  to  say  about  it.  It  appears  this 
Walt  Whitman  is  two  persons — two  or  more,  for  I'm  not 
just  sure  I've  got  to  the  end  of  him.  One  Walt  was  trem 
bling  at  the  knees,  very  much  afraid,  scared,  wobbly,  quak 
ing.  The  other  Walt  came  from  somewhere,  kicked  the 
first  in  a  corner  and — ran  things.  The  other  Walt  acted 
like  a  brave  man  or  a  fool — which?  He  stuck  out  his 
tongue  and  turned  his  back.  Lucky  he  didn't  get  a  knife 
in  it.  I  suppose  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  better  than 
we  do;  must  have?  well,  maybe,  since  all  came  out  right. 
Now  the  other  Walt's  gone.  If  your  Raoul  should  walk  into 
this  room,  I  believe  I'd  jump  out  of  the  window  if  I  didn't 
jump  out  of  my  skin  first.  Why?  I'm  no  fighter;  have 
sometimes  wrestled,  thrown  men  and  boys  in  friendly  tus 
sles;  but  I  never  j ought  any  one  in  my  life;  I  guess  I 
shouldn't  know  how.  But  .  .  .  mystery!  Where  did  the 
other  Walt  come  from?  where  did  he  go  to?  Mystery, 
mystery!  " 

"  He  comes  when  he  is  needed.  Where  from?  From 
your  mind,  of  course,  my  silly  Walt!  " 

"  When  he  is  needed?  Yes,  but  is  he  dependable?  I 
hope,  so,  but  feel  no  certainty.  If  he  comes  from  the 
mind,  does  he  go  back  there?  And  what  does  he  do  all 


THE   ANSWERER  261 

the  time — sleep?  Or  do  some  work  we  don't  know  about? 
You  should  be  able  to  solve  the  puzzle.  Women  are  so 
differently  constituted — feel  more  and  therefore  know  more 
than  men." 

"  All  that  is  no  mystery  to  me,"  declared  Floride.  "  But," 
she  added,  "  I  cannot  explain  it." 

"  The  old,  the  never-ending  trouble !  "  Walt  exclaimed. 
"  A  man  can  explain  but  he  doesn't  know;  a  woman  knows 
but  she  can't  explain." 

He  added:  "  And  a  man  can't  find  out." 

20 

But  he  knew  he  was  on  the  path  toward  finding  out. 

Not  for  nothing  had  he  these  special  insights,  these  mo 
ments  of  perception — perception  without  disenchantment — 
in  which  he  saw  with  a  clarity  sorrowful  and  yet  bright 
what  must  be  the  end  of  his  and  Floride's  relation.  Was 
he  to  blame?  No  ...  he  was  not  to  blame,  any  more 
than  she.  There  was  no  blame;  life  was  so,  a  mighty  river 
— rather,  an  ocean.  Never,  from  the  first,  had  he  prac 
tised  deception  or  concealment ;  he  had  told  her  their  destiny 
as  he  saw  it;  what  had  he  withheld?  That,  once,  he  had 
so  loved  as  to  sacrifice  something  of  the  perfect  integrity 
of  his  nature?  But  that  was  not  concealed  from  her  by 
his  silence.  She  knew  that,  had  named  it  between  them; 
and  he  was  too  sincere  with  her  to  utter  an  empty  denial. 
One  thing,  perhaps,  he  had  withheld:  The  new,  delicious, 
profoundly-troubling  feeling  that  was  astir  in  his  heart  and, 
in  moments,  had  an  effect  of  still  intoxication  upon  his 
senses; — the  feeling  that  out  of  the  vast  ocean  of  life  in 


262  THE   ANSWERER 

which  for  all  these  years  he  had  been  derelictive  he  was 
at  last  caught  up  in  the  bosom  of  a  silent,  indissuadable 
stream  or  current  or  river.  .  .  .  Gulf  Stream.  That  was 
the  figure  for  it  in  all  its  majesty,  moving  widely  and  un 
seen.  Gulf  Stream,  which,  originating  somewhere  within 
or  without  him,  was  to  carry  him  onward  to  an  expanded, 
illimitable  destiny. 

That  destiny  was  a  voice  The  Answerer  singing  a  song 
The  Poet. 

The  song  of  songs  would  be  himself,  what  he  contained 
(all  that  the  world  contained  and  all  that  the  unseen  worlds 
contained) ;  it  would  invert  the  deep  wisdom  of  those  poems 
of  India  and  the  East,  poems  he  had  spent  years  in  slowly 
absorbing,  giving  them  their  Western  complement.  Where 
as  they  accomplished  the  principle  of  Identity  by  losing  the 
self  in  the  boundless  self,  it  was  his  infinitely-difficult  task 
to  demonstrate  the  same  principle  by  showing  how  the 
boundless,  universal  self  was  all  contained  in  the  single, 
personal  self,  in  the  true  individual  natural  person,  in  the 
separate,  unitary  soul  which  had  (must,  must  have!)  the 
power  ...  to  set  free  .  .  . 

21 

A  power  to  set  free  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  everywhere 
in  the  air  of  those  days  of  1848,  to  Walt  not  less  than 
to  thousands  of  others.  Everywhere?  Well,  not  in  the 
Southern  empire  of  the  North  American  republic.  There 
Walt  felt  the  existence  of  a  power  at  once  compact  and 
widespread,  but  scarcely  a  liberating  power.  What  was 
its  special  characteristic?  what  the  peculiar  "  feel "  of  that 


THE   ANSWERER  263 

power  which  gave  to  men's  minds  a  strange  assurance 
and  placed  on  their  lips  the  confident  (yes,  exultant)  phrases 
about  their  (our)  "  manifest  destiny  "?  When  before  had 
men  dared  easily  to  name  destiny  as  manifest,  as  plainly 
marked  out?  In  Rome?  In  Athens?  In  Alexandria?  In 
Nineveh?  In  Tyre?  Yes,  so  might  men  have  talked  in 
the  old  days.  .  .  . 

The  source  of  the  sense  of  power  which  Walt  found  all 
about  him  was  many-rooted.  Partly  it  sprang  from  political 
leadership  which,  from  the  days  of  the  founding  of  the 
Republic,  had  never  shifted  from  the  South.  Partly  the 
stratification  of  Southern  society,  like  layer  upon  layer  of 
bulwarked  masonry,  like  the  mortised  and  tenoned  and 
moated  wall  of.  a  feudal  castle,  gave  to  the  ruling  caste 
the  sense  of  impregnable  security.  But  more  was  owing 
to  the  philosophical  doctrines  and  religious  sanctions  which, 
on  every  hand  proclaimed,  convinced  the  minds  and  swayed 
the  hearts  of  scrupulous,  honorable,  conscientious  and  kindly 
men.  And  those  who  were  not  scrupulous  or  honorable, 
who  were  without  conscience  or  kindliness?  This,  Walt 
noted,  sufficed  for  them:  That  the  white  fleece  of  the  fields 
was  becoming  a  golden  fleece;  cotton  was  rising,  rising, 
rising;  and  with  it  rose  the  value  of  land  and  the  value  of 
those  who  worked  the  land,  whose  dark  bodies,  glistening 
with  sweat,  were  in  the  view  of  some  savants  but  doubt 
fully  human. 

But  God  damn  me!  God  bless  me!  Walt  apostrophized 
himself,  I  can't  at  all  take  the  view,  even  the  composite, 
blended  view,  which  all  these  Southerners  are  satisfied  with. 
They  tilt  the  picture  this  way,  that  way,  asking:  Isn't  it 


264  THE   ANSWERER 

pretty?  Isn't  it  glorious!  And  it  seems  to  me  neither 
pretty  nor  glorious.  Why?  Not  that  thousands  and  thou 
sands  of  the  blacks  aren't  as  well  off,  or  better  off,  under 
slavery  than  under  any  form  of  freedom  I  (or  any  one  else, 
likely)  can  conceive  for  them.  Some  terribly  suffer,  sold 
South  from  Virginia  and  lashed  by  overseers;  would  not 
a  same  or  greater  percentage  suffer  in  African  tribal  wars 
and  cruelties?  Ah!  that  touches  a  point.  America  isn't 
Africa.  Shall  America  perpetuate,  even  on  the  smallest 
scale,  Africa? 

He  began  to  see  more  clearly  the  real  nature  of  his 
objection,  which  had  not  for  its  sharpest  focus  the  glisten 
ing  bodies  in  the  fields  or  the  debatable  souls  of  black 
folk.  Those  who  affirmed  the  negro  to  have  no  soul  were 
unshakeably  sure  that  his  master  had  a  soul.  And  it  was 
that  soul,  Walt  felt,  which  stood  in  daily,  hourly  peril. 

The  runaway  slave  came  to  my  house  and  stopped  out 
side,  he  wrote  in  a  notebook  wherein  he  was  beginning  to 
set  down  phrases,  sentences,  penciled  word-pictures: — the 
stuff  of  some  day's  poem  o:  poems.  /  heard  his  motions 
crackling  the  twigs  of  the  woodpile;  through  the  swung 
half-door  of  the  kitchen  I  saw  him  limpsy  and  weak,  and 
went  where  he  sat  on  a  log,  and — "  gave  him  reassurances  "  ? 
Too  roundabout,  that;  faulty  in  cadence;  weak.  The  sim 
ple,  vigorous  verb — and,  he  resumed  writing,  assured  him, 
and  brought  water,  and  fill'd  a  tub  for  his — "  sweaty  "  will 
not  do.  The  verb,  the  verb! — his  sweated  body  and  bruis'd 
feet,  and  gave  him  a  room  that  enter'd  from  my  own — if 
any  choose  to  read  into  that  phrase  a  deeper  meaning,  I 


THE  ANSWERER  265 

will  not  exclude  a  deeper  meaning — and  gave  him  some 
coarse  clean  clothes,  and  remember  perfectly  well  .  .  . 

What,  what?  The  condensed,  epitomizing  half-dozen 
words,  giving  with  sparse  stroke  that  vivid  picture?  .  .  . 
and  remember  well  his  revolving  eyes  and  his  awkwardness 
— NOT  "  rolling  eyes,"  but  eyes  that  moved  ceaselessly  side 
ways,  watching  fearfully  in  all  directions  from  their  corners, 
eyes  that  circumvented  everything  in  the  room  and  pierced 
doors  and  searched  behind  the  simple  furniture — and  re 
member  putting  plasters  on  the  galls  of  his  neck  and  ankles; 
he  staid  with  me  a  week  before  he  was  recuperated  and 
pass'd  north;  (I  had  him  sit  next  me  at  table — my  fire- 
ock  lean'd  in  the  corner)  .  .  . 

That  was  oh!  good,  good!  I  know  it  to  be  good.  Let 
me  see  if  I  can't,  here  and  now,  do  another  picture.  .  .  . 

The  negro  holds  firmly  the  reins  of  his  four  horses;  the 
block — what  verb  to  describe  that  block's  movement? 
"swigs"?  no;  hasn't  the  right  ring.  I've  the  word! — 
the  block  swags  underneath  on  its  tied-over  chain;  the  negro 
that  drives  the  dray  of  the  stone-yard,  steady  and  tall  he 
stands,  pois'd  on  one  leg  on  the  stringpiece;  his  blue  shirt 
exposes  his  ample  neck  and  breast,  and  loosens  over  his 
hip-band;  his  glance  is  calm  and  commanding — he  tosses 
the  slouch  of  his  hat  away  from  his  forehead  .  .  . 

I  love  this,  delight  in  this!  Each  word  must  tell  like  the 
sharp  line  of  an  artist's  apparently  careless  but  really  stud 
ied  drawing;  each  verb  must  be  a  significant  sweep  of  the 
crayon  over  the  drawing-board.  Now  for  a  phrase  or  two, 
final,  giving  perspective;  as  when,  the  drawing  completed, 


266  THE   ANSWERER 

you  stand  back  with  cocked  eye  to  take  all  in  quickly.  .  .  . 

The  sun  jails  on  his  crispy  hair  and  mustache — jails  on\ 
the  black  of  his  polished  and  perfect  limbs. 

There!  Take  it  all  in,  the  whole,  the  composition,  the 
lighting.  And  the  meaning?  Is  it  just  a  bright,  fugitive 
glimpse?  It  means  nothing  unless  it  has  kindled  emotion  in 
me;  nothing  means  anything  except  as  it  moves  me,  you,  us; 
all.  But  the  aroused  emotion?  That  can,  after  all,  only 
be  hinted;  can't  be  said.  A  hint,  then;  just  a  hint.  .  .  . 

/  behold  the  picturesque  giant,  and  love  him  .  .  . 

Something  further,  barely  touched  on  ... 

And  I  do  not  stop  there  .  .  . 

Don't  stop  with  any  one  man,  or  with  all  men;  to  rounds 
off,  complete  my  thought  .  .  .  and  I  do  not  stop  there — 
he  re-read,  and  then  wrote  firmly — 

In  me  the  caresser  of  life  wherever  moving,.    That  com-j 
pletes  the  thought,  my  happy  phrase  of  t'other  day.     Life 
is  the  significant  word;  the  caresser  of  life — wherever  movA 
ing.  ...  It  sings!     It  sings! 

22 

To  the  moments  of  ecstacy  succeeded  the  hour  of  apathy! 
from  which  he  emerged  into  a  feeling  of  sadness  as  hej 
thought  of  his  fast-approaching  birthday,  end  of  this  Fifth ! 
Month.    He  would  be  twenty-nine;  and  had  accomplished 
nothing. 

Fifth  Month,  and  up  at  the  North  the  lilacs  would  bej 
richly    blossoming.      Heart-shaped    leaves    and    delicate, 
pointed  blossoms. 

Suddenly,  sitting  there  at  his  desk  he  could  smell  the 


THE   ANSWERER  267 

lilacs.  ...  Oh,  Esther,  Esther!  Why  couldn't  I  have  had 
you?  and  now  I  have  not  even  the  embosoming  lilacs,  not 
even  the  sight  of  the  farmyard  with  its  whitewashed  palings 
and,  standing  beside  the  bush,  your  little  throat  among  the 
odorous  clusters,  you.  I  have  nothing  but  the  remembered 
fragrance — sharper,  sweeter,  more  ethereal,  more  lasting 
than  all  these  heavy  perfumes  of  the  glistening,  magnetic 
South.  It  was  this  month,  the  month  of  lilacs,  that  .  .  . 

The  renunciation — yours?  mine? — is  made,  the  grievous 
loss  is  safely  scarred  over,  I  suppose;  then  why  this  recur 
ring  weakness?  this  trembling  in  all  my  young,  strong  body? 
Will  it  always  be  so?  Oh,  I  can't  think,  work;  I  can  at 
such  times  as  this  only  suffer.  My  loves,  my  friendships 
which  mean  so  much  to  me  don't,  can't,  in  all  their  totality 
— past,  present,  future — mean  more  than  the  least  fraction 
of  what  you  could  have  meant  to  me.  .  .  . 

A  sound  of  approaching  footfalls.  Walt  looked  up.  It 
was  Madison  Slocomb  in  the  easy  attire  of  a  planter;  he 
had  just  bought  acreage  in  Mississippi  and,  abandoning 
commerce,  contemplated  his  accession  to  the  Southern  aris 
tocracy  with  the  satisfaction  of  a  commoner  lifted  to  the 
peerage. 

"  Hello!  "  he  said  genially.    "  How's  things?  " 

"  Well,"  was  the  answer.  "  But  I  am  going  to  leave  you. 
Going  North  again.  I've  just  decided." 

"Pshaw!  I'm  sorry.  Don't  suppose  I  can  induce  you 
to  stay?  "  The  regretful  acquiescence  was  due  to  a  keen 
look  at  Walt's  face. 

"  No.  .  .  .  No.  You've  been  mighty  good  to  me.  New 
Orleans,  working  for  you,  everything,  the  whole  shooting 


268  THE   ANSWERER 

match,  is  going  to  be  a  pleasant,  yes,  an  affectionate  recol 
lection." 

"  Good.  I'm  glad  of  that.  I'll  just  keep  alive  a  hope 
that  you'll  come  back." 

23 

To  Eugene  Fuller  a  brief  farewell  was  also  necessary,  and 
Walt  received  a  promise  of  such  further  news  as  might  en 
able  him  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  Marchesa  Ossoli  in 
Italy.  Then,  good-by  to  the  fiscal  agent  of  the  South  Amer 
ican  Colorados ;  good-by  to  Jeanne. 

"  I  shall  miss  your  cercle"  Walt  avowed  to  Mme.  O'Don- 
oju,  "  or  rather,  since  now  you're  married,  it  has  become  a 
salon,  hasn't  it?  " 

"  A  salon  a  deux"  said  the  wife  of  Jose  O'Donoju,  with 
a  glance,  mischievously  merry — and,  yes,  something  else — 
at  the  ex-general,  her  husband. 

The  commanding  officer  drew  Walt  aside  for  a  parting 
whisper. 

"  I  hope  to  forestall  the  salon  with  a  nursery,"  he  commu-  i 
nicated.    "  Good-by,  me  friend;  the  luck  of  the  O'Donojus 
go  with  you!  " 

The  earnest  Traubel  had  already  left  New  Orleans ;  had,  j 
in  fact,  left  America,  to  return  to  Germany  and  watch  the 
work  of  the  National  Assembly  just  convening  at  Frank 
furt  for  the  purpose  of  framing  a  constitution  for  a  free 
German  State. 

Last,  and  immediately  following  a  walk  around  the  city — 
one  more  breakfast  in  the  French  Market,  one  more  stroll 
along  Canal  Street — Walt  sought  out  Floride.  .  .  . 


THE   ANSWERER  269 

She  received  him,  her  eyes  intimately  reading  his  face  in 
which  she  found,  as  ever,  no  effort  at  concealment.  During 
the  perfunctory  exchange  of  a  few  conventional  words,  she 
remained  composed  and,  in  the  beauty  of  her  morning 
toilette,  a  figure  of  the  embodied  Creole  tradition — petite, 
lovely  in  the  subtle  proportioning  of  her  body,  assured;  al 
together  admirable.  But  then,  as  he  hesitated  slightly  in 
what  he  had  to  say,  her  lip  quivered,  two  tears  forming 
in  her  eyes  crept  slowly  down  her  cheeks,  and  with  the  sud 
den  burst  of  the  storm  of  her  passion  she  flung  her  arms 
about  his  shoulders. 

"No!    No!     Je  t'implore!    Stay!   .  .  .  stay  .  .  ." 

The  light  pressure  of  his  hands  upon  her  arms  was  only 
momentary,  but  seemed  to  renew  her  fortitude,  her  im 
mense  personal  pride.  She  was  calm  again,  she  held  herself 
aloof. 

"  Out.    11  faut  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  in  which  he  could  not  lift 
his  eyes.  She  repeated,  tonelessly:  "  II  faut  .  .  .  il  faut 
...  it  must  ...  it  must  .  .  .  souffrir  .  .  ." 

At  the  word  "  suffer  "  he  looked  up,  gently  but  definitely. 

"  Yes,  we  suffer.  We  will  always  suffer,  and  we  will  al 
ways  be  glad  of  it,  you  and  I.  Neither  of  us  would  be  happy 
without  ...  the  adventure  of  passion.  I  mean  passion, 
the  pure,  full,  right  sense  of  the  word — '  suffering.'  The 
adventure  of  passion — and  the  adventure  of  love."  She 
listened,  eyes  lowered,  lips  parted,  to  the  timbre  of  his  voice, 
like  the  sound  of  a  bell,  a  little  husky-throated,  as  if  some 
faint  flaw  in  the  metal  of  the  casting  made  the  sound  trou 
bled.  "  Both  of  us  have  endured  things  and  we  have  begun 


270  THE   ANSWERER 

to  find  endurance — delicious?  Yes,  there  is  something  joy 
ous  in  the  reality  that  we  know  how  to  endure.  The  only 
reality!  The  things  we  endure  aren't  real;  but  our  endur 
ance  of  them  is.  That's  the  sweet  self  in  us,  that  exquisite 
sense,  feeling,  renewing  passion  of  endurance,  of  suffer 
ing » 

"Kiss  me!     Kiss  me,  Walt!  " 

She  clung  to  him  and  he  obeyed  her.    She  said: 

"  After  you— there  will  be  others?  " 

"  After  me— others." 

"  You?  " 

"  I'll  turn  sometimes  into  a  shadowy  passage.  And  then 
I'll  feel  with  a  thrill  of  clear  joy  your  hand  placed  upon  my 
arm.  I'll  just  whisper:  '  Floride,  you  wish — me?  '  .  .  .  Oh, 
my  darling,  don't,  don't  cry  so!  " 

But  even  as  he  endeavored  to  console  her,  torn  with  pity 
for  her  unhappiness,  which  would  pass,  he  knew,  relieved 
by  her  yielding  to  it — even  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms  for 
this  last,  last  time,  the  sharp,  ethereal  scent  of  blossoming 
lilacs  mastered  him.  Memory!  Thou  vast  rondure,  thou 
mighty  ocean  ! 

24 

The  sense  of  wonder,  of  constant  miracle  was  upon  Walt 
as  he  voyaged  up  the  Mississippi.  This  land,  these  States! 
By  day  he  saw,  beyond  the  low,  flat  banks,  the  wide-spread 
ing  farmlands ;  by  night  he  looked  at  the  sky,  fully  of  starry 
constellations,  like  an  enormous  banner  flung  over  the  des 
tinies  of  the  peoples  of  the  new  Republic.  The  sense  of  all 
the  eye  could  reach  and  much,  much  more  than  the  eye 


THE   ANSWERER  271 

could  reach  was  strong — awake,  asleep.  Concentrate,  he 
tried  to  reduce  this  irresistible  emotion  to  words,  sitting 
long  hours  with  pencil  and  notebook,  writing,  crossing 
out.  .  .  . 

Starting  from  fish-shape  Paumanok,  where  I  was  born,  he 
wrote,  and  after  a  long  interval,  his  thought  turning  affec 
tionately,  with  lively  anticipation,  homeward:  Well-begot 
ten,  and  raised  by  a  perfect  mother.  .  .  . 

He  could  articulate,  join  together,  nothing  now;  so  must 
just  set  down  detached  fragments,  for  later  weaving. 

Americanos!  Masters!  For  you  a  program  of  chants. 
Chants  of  the  prairies,  chants  of  the  long-running  Mississippi. 
O  the  lands!  interlinked,  food-yielding  lands!  of  coal  and 
iron;  of  gold;  of  cotton,  sugar,  rice.  Land  of  the  pastoral 
plains,  sweet-air' d  interminable  plateaus!  See,  in  arriere, 
the  wigwam,  the  trail,  the  hunter's  hut,  the  flatboat,  the 
maize-leaf,  the  claim  staked  out,  the  rude  fence;  finally  the 
backwoods  village.  See,  beyond  the  Kanzas,  countless  herds 
of  buffalo,  feeding  on  short  curly  grass.  See  the  strong  and 
quick  locomotive,  as  it  departs,  panting,  blowing  the  steam- 
whistle;  see  plowmen  plowing  farms.  See  mechanics  busy  at 
their  benches,  with  tools;  see  from  among  them,  superior 
judges,  philosophs,  Presidents  emerge,  drest  in  working 
dresses. 

He  sat  dreamily  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  leadsman 
and  the  pilot.  Sailing  the  Mississippi  at  midnight  was  a 
good  subject  for  a  poem.  Perhaps  the  idea  dimly  in  the 
back  of  his  mind  was  wrong;  perhaps  he  should  see  if  he 
could  not  cast  his  thoughts  into  some  of  the  regular,  ordered, 
piloted  channels  of  song.  Rimed,  meter'd  verse.  .  .  . 


272  THE   ANSWERER 

Setting  to  work  conscientiously  he  spent  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon  on  the  projected  lines  suggested  by  the  river  at 
night,  with  this  final  result: 

Fast  and  starless,  the  pall  of  heaven 

Laps  on  the  trailing  pall  below; 
And  forward,  forward,  in  solemn  darkness, 

As  if  to  the  sea  of  the  lost  we  go. 

Now  drawn  nigh  the  edge  of  the  river, 

Weird-like  creatures  suddenly  rise; 
Shapes  that  fade,  dissolving  outlines 

Baffle  the  gazer's  straining  eyes. 

Towering  upward  and  bending  forward, 
Wild  and  wide  their  arms  are  thrown, 

Ready  to  pierce  with  forked  fingers 
Him  who  touches  their  realm  upon. 

Tide  of  youth,  thus  thickly  planted, 

While  in  eddies  onward  you  swim, 
Thus  on  the  shore  stands  a  phantom  army, 

Lining  forever  the  channel's  rim. 

Steady,  helmsman!  you  guide  the  immortal; 

Many  a  wreck  is  beneath  you  piled, 
Many  a  brave  yet  unwary  sailor 

Over  these  waters  has  been  beguiled. 

Nor  is  it  the  storm  or  the  scowling  midnight, 

Cold,  or  sickness,  or  fire's  dismay — 
Nor  is  it  the  reef,  or  treacherous  quicksand, 

Will  peril  you  most  on  your  twisted  way. 

But  when  there  comes  a  voluptuous  languor, 

Soft,  the  sunshine,  silent  the  air, 
Bewitching  your  craft  with  safety  and  sweetness, 

Then,  young  pilot  of  life,  beware. 

This,  as  he  read  it  over  the  following  day,  was  not  poetry. 
He  did  not  know  what  it  was;  "flapdoodle,  I  guess,"  he 
said  to  himself.  His  critical  intelligence  studied  the  lines 
comparatively.  The  opening  figure  of  the  two  palls  was 
good,  though  worn  .  .  .  the  third  line  was  weak,  especially 


THE   ANSWERER  273 

in  the  repetition  of  "  forward  "...  with  the  second  stanza 
the  Poesque  effect  was  confirmed  but  any  dignity  the 
verses  possessed  was  shipwrecked  on  the  awful  (awful!) 
line:  "  Him  who  touches  their  realm  upon  "...  to  give 
Poe  credit,  he  would  never  have  perpetrated  a  line  like  that 
...  on  the  other  hand,  the  line:  "  Steady,  helmsman!  you 
guide  the  immortal "  had  a  certain  ring  and  elevation;  was 
dignity  pretty  successfully  recaptured;  but  then,  imme 
diately,  besides  the  tiresome  inversion  of  verbs  one  came 
upon  the  equally  tiresome  stock  poetical  offsets:  "  Many — 
many ;  nor — nor  "...  and  damn  the  necessities  of  meter, 
to  call  a  quicksand  "  treacherous  "  was  to  be  silly;  might  as 
well  talk  about  the  "  dark  darkness  "  or  "  sticky  mud  "... 
and  as  for  the  last  stanza  .  .  . 

If  it  was  intended  as  an  indirect  reflection  of  his  own  ex 
perience  South,  it  was  false — false!  But  wasn't  it  false, 
anyway?  He  considered  a  little.  Yes,  I  think  it  is  a  piece 
of  utter  claptrap,  just  nice  smooth  conventional  "solemn 
warning  " — like  a  book  for  children's  Sunday  reading  .  .  . 
trash.  And  the  whole  "  poem  "? 

"  God  bless  me!  "  he  exclaimed  aloud,  suddenly.  "  Lydia 
Sigourney  might  have  written  it." 

Just  the  thing  for  Godey's  Ladies'  Book! 

Cheap,  slick,  water-your-hair-and-wave-it-back-from-your- 
forehead  sentimentality. 

He  could  see  the  contemptuous  grin  on  the  clean,  fresh 
face  of  any  hardy  young  woodman,  bayman,  pioneer.  .  .  . 
Unquestionably  he  could  sell  the  thing.  Well,  perhaps  he 
might  sell  the  thing;  that,  it  struck  him  laughably,  was  all 
it  was  good  for.  .  .  . 


274  THE   ANSWERER 

What  was  wrong?  He  had  filled  the  mold  faithfully 
enough;  had  had  as  much  as  the  usual  inspiration.  But 
'damn!  Those  lines  bore  no  relation  to  usual  life,  as  it  was 
lived;  above  all,  bore  no  relation  to  the  life  and  breath  of 
vigorous,  rough,  crescent  America.  This  large,  irregular,  ex 
panding  land  had,  if  it  had  anything,  two  striking  character 
istics:  One  was  the  racing  sap  of  a  national  adolescence, 
the  other  was  a  great,  expansive  drift  of  thought  and  char 
acter — something  loosely  stratified  and  geologically-forming 
about  it.  The  large,  loose  drift  of  character,  unconsciously 
forming;  that  was  it. 

Pretty  little  rondels,  ballades,  villanelles;  carefully  sing 
songed  and  sawed-off  lines,  chiming  syllables — they  wouldn't 
express  it.  Besides,  there  was  about  them  the  affectation, 
if  you  tried  to  fit  them  to  American  subjects,  that  there 
would  be  about  an  American  order  of  nobility  .  .  .  some 
thing  imported,  all  put  up  in  nice,  neat  packages  .  .  .  alien. 
Take  the  grand  idea  of  democracy,  not  merely  political  de 
mocracy  but  the  felt-for  brotherhood  of  all  men  in  a  free 
nation:  Could  you  keep  it  in  (say)  iambic  pentameters? 
wouldn't  it  spill  over?  swash  around?  .  .  .  You  could  only 
proclaim  it  in  surges  like  the  surges  of  the  Atlantic,  beating 
upon  Paumanok;  you  could  only  chant  it;  you  could  only 
set  its  spirit  free. 

His  thought,  looping  back,  returned  to  Floride.  .  .  . 
There  again,  the  same  questing  difficulty.  The  emotion  she 
inspired  in  him  had  its  own  rhythm;  not  a  correct,  formal 
swing  at  all;  something  broken  about  it,  something  very 
beautiful.  ...  In  the  high  saturation  of  his  emotion  he 
again  set  to  work.  ...  By  nightfall,  though  it  had  taken 


THE   ANSWERER  275 

far  longer  to  achieve,  he  was  measurably  satisfied  with 
seven  lines  of  varying  length;  was  sure  to  himself  of  their 
cadence— half-recitative,  half-arioso— and,  in  the  mood  of 
completest  sincerity  in  which  he  had  wrought  them,  he 
must  put  his  trust  for  the  supreme  essential:  That  they 
might  touch  in  some  one  else,  some  future  day,  the  feeling 
in  which  he  dwelt. 

Once  I  passed  through  a  populous  city,  imprinting  my  brain,  for 

future  use,  with  its  shows,  architecture,  customs,  traditions; 
Yet  now,  of  all  that  city,  I  remember  only  a  woman  I  casually 

met  there,  who  detain' d  me  for  love  of  me; 
Day  by  day  and  night  by  night  we  were  together, — All  else  has 

been  forgotten  by  me; 
I  remember,  I  say,  only  that  woman  zvho  passionately  clung  to 

me; 

Again  we  wander — we  love — we  separate  again; 
Again  she  holds  me  by  the  hand — /  must  not  go! 
I  see  her  close  beside  me,  with  silent  lips,  sad  and  tremulous. 

He  did  not  know  whether  this  was  a  poem,  but  it  was  the 
best  expression  of  what  he  felt.  .  .  .  The  truest. 

25 

About  noon  on  a  Saturday  the  river  steamer  Pride  of  the 
West  put  Walt  ashore,  with  her  other  passengers,  at  St. 
Louis.  The  Mississippi  voyage  had  been  uneventful,  though 
pleasant;  with  good  weather  and  no  great  crowd  of  passen 
gers,  yet  with  every  berth  taken.  Finding  that  he  could 
secure  passage  on  the  steamboat  Prairie  Bird,  bound  up  the 
Illinois  River  and  leaving  at  dusk,  he  bought  his  ticket  and 
spent  the  few  hours  he  had  in  St.  Louis  hunting  a  meal. 
This  seemed  to  involve  rambling  all  over  town  but  was  an 
errand  unfavorable  for  sightseeing. 


276  THE   ANSWERER 

The  Prairie  Bird  cast  off  promptly  (her  destination  was 
La  Salle)  but  encountered,  in  a  couple  of  hours,  such  a  rain 
and  blow  as  made  her  haul  in  along  shore  and  tie  fast  to  the 
bank.  Her  whole  night's  passage,  in  consequence,  was  only 
thirty  miles.  Between  an  overload  of  passengers  and  a 
deckload  of  freight,  Walt,  who  had  spent  an  uncomfortable 
night  on  the  floor  of  the  cabin,  found  himself  hardly  able  to 
turn  around. 

The  resounding  names  of  some  very  small  villages  on  the 
river  drew  his  attention — Marseilles,  Naples,  and  so  on. 
The  river  banks  were  low  and  grew  a  very  rank  vegetation. 
At  Peoria  he  had  the  impression  of  a  pleasant  town;  going 
ashore  while  the  Prairie  Bird  lingered,  he  was  struck  with 
the  rich  quality,  and  cheapness,  of  the  surrounding  coun 
try.  Three  or  four  miles  from  Peoria,  the  best  of  soil  could 
be  bought,  he  learned,  for  $3  or  $4  an  acre. 

At  La  Salle  the  Prairie  Bird  shoo'd  them  every  one  away; 
like  most  of  the  travelers  Walt  was  to  go  on  board  a  canal- 
boat  bound  for  Chicago.  In  the  interval  he  bumped  against 
a  man  whose  face  was  remotely  familiar.  The  other  stared 
with  equal  perplexity  and  doubt  at  Walt.  Finally: 

"  Haven't  I  run  across  you,  East,  some  years  back?  " 
Walt  asked. 

"  I  was  East — le'  me  see — back  in  '40." 

"  In  '40?  I  was  schoolteaching  on — Hold  a  minute! 
D'you  remember  walking  one  day,  about  this  time  o'  the 
year,  along  a  Long  Island  road  and  falling  in  with  two-three 
other  travelers?  One  was  a  nigger,  one  was  a  Whig,  a  poli 
tician,  all  the  time  dipping  snuff  and  sneezing  his  head  off, 
I  was  a  third — " 


THE   ANSWERER  277 

"Sure's  I'm  alive!     I  remember— remember  well!  " 

"  You  were  the  fellow  from  Illinois." 

"  You  bet!    An'  the'  was  one  more— fellow  with  thin  gold 
earrings,  sailor  of  some  sort.    I  remember  you!  " 

They  canvassed  that  dispersed  company.    The  Illinoisan 
asked: 

"  You  don't  know  what  became  of  any  of  those  people,  I 
s'pose?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Walt,  "I  do— one.  The  sailor-chap's  by 
way  of  being  a  celebre,  a  notoriety,  now.  Name  was  Her 
man  Melville.  You  recall  he  was  talking  some  about  going 
on  a  whaling  voyage?  Seems  he  fetched  up  at  New  Bed 
ford,  Nantucket,  or  somewhere  and  joined  a  whaler.  He 
and  another  fellow  were  ill-used  and  shook  the  ship  in  the 
Pacific  Islands — place  called  Nukahiva,  one  of  the  Mar 
quesas  group.  Warlike  natives  made  them  prisoners;  after 
several  months  Melville's  companion  escaped;  then  an  Aus 
tralian  whaler  picked  up  Melville.  He  batted  around  the 
Pacific  for  a  year  or  two  longer;  came  home  to  New  York 
about  three- four  years  ago,  and  wrote  a  book  about  his  ex 
periences — Typee  was  the  name  of  it;  made  a  pronounced 
sensation.  Very  striking  picture  of  his  life  among  the  canni 
bals.  I  think  he's  since  written  another  book,  same  sort, 
but  am  not  sure." 

"You  don't  say!  " 

"  The  others  I've  never  seen — you're  the  first.    In  fact,  I 

never  ran  across  Melville,  only  know  about  him.     Look 

here,  weren't  you  treasure-hunting  on  Long  Island?    After 

Captain  Kidd's  buried  gold?     I  seem  to  recollect  it." 

"Yes;  I  was  one  of  those  crazy  people" — sheepishly — 


278  THE   ANSWERER 

"  but  I  got  all  over  that  foolishness.  Look's  now,  though, 
as  if  the  chance  to  strike  it  rich  was  before  me  at  last.  Have 
you  heard?  they  say  gold  has  been  found  in  California! 
Lots  of  it,  lying  right  on  the  surface  o'  the  ground!  "  His 
excited  voice  sank  nearly  to  a  whisper. 

"  So  the  report  was  in  New  Orleans,  some  time  before  I 
left." 

"I'm  goin'  there  if  I  have  to  crawl  on  my  hands  and 
knees." 

Walt  laughed.  "  Well,  you're  welcome  to  all  you  can  lay 
hold  of.  Looks  to  me  as  if  you'd  have  plenty  of  company; 
great  deal  of  excitement,  I  find,  everywhere."  He  mused. 
"  Wonder  how  our  old  friend  the  Whig  politician  is,  these 
times?  Sneezing  for  Taylor,  no  doubt!  " 

"  The  Whigs  are  going  to  carry  the  country  this  fall,  all 
right.  Old  Zach's  a  fine  candidate;  Cass  the  Michigander 
can't  beat  him,  with  Martin  Van  Buren  and  the  Free  Soil 
crowd  bolting  the  Democrats.  Say!  you  ought  to  read  the 
speech  our  Congressman,  Abe  Lincoln,  made  t'other  day 
about  Gineral  Cass!  Wait;  I've  got  the  paper  with  it  in 
right  in  my  pocket."  He  fumbled  and  produced  the  sheet. 
"  You  know,  years  back,  Abe  was  a  volunteer  when  we  was 
raising  soldiery  to  tame  old  Chief  Black  Hawk  and  shove 
him  an'  his  warriors  back  acrost  the  Mississipp'.  'Twa'n't 
anything;  Abe's  only  battle  was  with  his  own  men,  once, 
when  they'd  got  hold  of  a  poor  old  friendly  Injun  and  was 
goin'  to  hang  him.  .  .  .  Here,  you  read  this.  .  .  .  Your 
boat  leavin'  on  the  canal?  Take  it  with  you;  'twill  ease  the 
tedjiousness!  .  .  .  Darn  glad  to  Ve  run  acrost  you  again. 
So  long!  .  .  ." 


THE   ANSWERER  279 

The  canal-boat,  moderate-sized,  with  about  seventy  pas 
sengers,  got  off  bravely  but  almost  immediately  stuck  on  a 
mud-bar.  While  she  was  with  difficulty  and  no  great  des 
patch  being  worked  free,  Walt  unfolded  the  newspaper  and 
turned  to  a  marked  column  containing  the  Congressman's 
speech.  Evidently  Mr.  Lincoln,  as  a  Whig,  had  had  a  little 
fun  with  the  Democrats.  He  read: 

"  The  other  day  one  of  the  gentlemen  from  Georgia,  an 
eloquent  man,  and  a  man  of  learning,  so  far  as  I  can 
judge,  not  being  learned  myself,  came  down  upon  us  as 
tonishingly.  He  spoke  in  what  the  Baltimore  American 
calls  the  '  scathing  and  withering  style.'  At  the  end  of 
his  second  severe  flash  I  was  struck  blind,  and  found  my 
self  feeling  with  my  fingers  for  an  assurance  of  my  con 
tinued  existence.  A  little  of  the  bone  was  left,  and  I 
gradually  revived.  He  eulogized  Mr.  Clay  in  high  and 
beautiful  terms,  and  then  declared  that  we  had  deserted 
all  our  principles,  and  had  turned  Henry  Clay  out,  like 
an  old  horse,  to  root. 

"  This  is  terribly  severe.  It  cannot  be  answered  by  ar 
gument — at  least  I  cannot  so  answer  it.  I  merely  wish 
to  ask  the  gentleman  if  the  Whigs  are  the  only  party  he 
can  think  of  who  sometimes  turn  old  horses  out  to  root. 
Is  not  a  certain  Martin  Van  Buren  an  old  horse  which 
your  own  party  have  turned  out  to  root?  and  is  he  not 
rooting  a  little  to  your  discomfort  about  now? 

"  But  the  gentleman  from  Georgia  further  says  we 
have  deserted  all  our  principles,  and  taken  shelter  under 
General  Taylor's  military  coat-tail,  and  he  seems  to  think 
this  is  exceedingly  degrading.  Well,  as  his  faith  is,  so  be 
it  unto  him.  But  can  he  remember  no  other  military  coat- 
tail  under  which  a  certain  other  party  have  been  shelter 
ing  for  near  a  quarter  of  a  century?  Has  he  no  acquaint 
ance  with  the  ample  military  coat-tail  of  General  Jack- 


28o  THE  ANSWERER 

son?  Does  he  not  know  that  his  own  party  have  run  the 
five  last  presidential  races  under  that  coat-tail?  And  that 
they  are  now  running  the  sixth  under  the  same  cover?  " 

Walt  was  laughing  to  himself,  so  that  some  of  the  others 
on  the  boat  cast  occasional  curious  and  smiling  glances  in 
his  direction. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  coat-tail  was  used  not  only  for  General 
Jackson  himself,  but  has  been  clung  to,  with  the  grip  of 
death,  by  every  Democratic  candidate  since.  You  have 
never  ventured,  and  dare  not  now  venture,  from  under  it. 
Your  campaign  papers  have  constantly  been  '  Old  Hick 
ories/  with  rude  likenesses  of  the  old  General  upon  them; 
hickory  poles  and  hickory  brooms  your  never-ending  em 
blems;  Mr.  Polk  himself  was  'Young  Hickory/  'Little 
Hickory/  or  something  so;  and  even  now  your  campaign 
paper  here  is  proclaiming  that  Cass  and  Butler  are  of  the 
true  '  Hickory  stripe.' 

"  Now,  sir,  you  dare  not  give  it  up.  Like  a  horde  of 
hungry  ticks  you  have  stuck  to  the  tail  of  the  Hermitage 
lion  to  the  end  of  his  life;  and  you  are  still  sticking  to  it, 
and  drawing  a  loathsome  sustenance  from  it,  after  he  is 
dead.  A  fellow  once  advertised  that  he  had  made  a  dis 
covery  by  which  he  could  make  a  new  man  out  of  an  old 
one,  and  have  enough  of  the  stuff  left  to  make  a  little  yel 
low  dog.  Just  such  a  discovery  has  General  Jackson's 
popularity  been  to  you.  You  not  only  twice  made  Presi 
dent  of  him  out  of  it,  but  you  have  had  enough  of  the 
stuff  left  to  make  Presidents  of  several  comparatively 
small  men  since;  and  it  is  your  chief  reliance  now  to  make 
still  another." 

The  comparison  of  the  Democrats  to  the  fellow  who  could 
make  a  new  man  and  have  some  stuff  left  for  a  little  yellow 


THE   ANSWERER  281 

dog  had  set  Walt  to  laughing  consumedly.    Several  passen 
gers  called  out  to  know  what  he  was  reading. 

"  Hold  on  till  I  finish,"  he  answered.  "  Then  you  can 
have  it." 

"  Mr.  Speaker,  old  horses  and  military  coat-tails,  or 
tails  of  any  sort,  are  not  figures  of  speech  such  as  I  would 
be  the  first  to  introduce  into  discussions  here;  but  as  the 
gentleman  from  Georgia  has  thought  fit  to  introduce  them, 
he  and  you  are  welcome  to  all  you  have  made,  or  can 
make  by  them.  If  you  have  any  more  old  horses,  trot 
them  out;  any  more  tails,  just  cock  them  and  come  at 
us.  I  repeat,  I  would  not  introduce  this  mode  of  discus 
sion  here;  but  I  wish  gentlemen  on  the  other  side  to  un 
derstand  that  the  use  of  degrading  figures  is  a  game  at 
which  they  may  not  find  themselves  able  to  take  all  the 
winnings." 

It  appeared  that  at  this  point  in  the  speech  there  had 
come  from  the  Democratic  side  cries  of  "  We  give  it  up!  " 
to  which  the  Illinois  Congressman  had  responded: 

"  Aye,  you  give  it  up,  and  well  you  may;  but  for  a  very 
different  reason  from  that  which  you  would  have  us  under 
stand.  The  point — the  power  to  hurt — of  all  figures  con 
sists  in  the  truthfulness  of  their  application;  and,  under 
standing  this,  you  may  well  give  it  up.  They  are  weapons 
which  hit  you,  but  miss  us. 

"  But  in  my  hurry  I  was  very  near  closing  this  subject 
of  military  tails  before  I  was  done  with  it.  There  is  one 
entire  article  of  the  sort  I  have  not  discussed  yet — I  mean 
the  military  tail  you  Democrats  are  now  engaged  in  dove 
tailing  into  the  great  Michigander.  Yes,  sir;  all  his  biog 
raphies  (and  they  are  legion)  have  him  in  hand,  tying  him 
to  a  military  tail,  like  so  many  mischievous  boys  tying  a 


282  THE  ANSWERER 

dog  to  a  bladder  of  beans.  True,  the  material  they  have 
is  very  limited,  but  they  drive  at  it  might  and  main.  He 
invaded  Canada  without  resistance,  and  he  ow^vaded  it 
without  pursuit.  As  he  did  both  under  orders,  I  suppose 
there  was  to  him  neither  credit  nor  discredit  in  them;  but 
they  constitute  a  large  part  of  the  tail.  He  was  not  at 
Hull's  surrender,  but  he  was  close  by;  he  was  volunteer 
aid  to  General  Harrison  on  the  day  of  the  battle  of  the 
Thames;  and  as  you  said  in  1840  Harrison  was  picking 
huckleberries  two  miles  off  while  the  battle  was  fought,  I 
suppose  it  is  a  just  conclusion  with  you  to  say  Cass  was 
aiding  Harrison  to  pick  huckleberries." 

"  Lord,  what  a  good  speech!  "  chuckled  Walt.  Said  some 
one: 

"  Here,  gimme  that  paper,  will  you?  " 

"Jest  a  minute;  jest  a  minute!  " 

Congressman  Lincoln  had  continued  with  an  allusion  to 
his  own  military  career: 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Speaker,  did  you  know  I  am  a  mili 
tary  hero?  Yes,  sir;  in  the  days  of  the  Black  Hawk  war 
I  fought,  bled,  and  came  away.  Speaking  of  General 
Cass's  career  reminds  me  of  my  own.  I  was  not  at  Still- 
man's  defeat,  but  I  was  about  as  near  it  as  Cass  was  to 
Hull's  surrender;  and,  like  him,  I  saw  the  place  very  soon 
afterward.  If  General  Cass  went  in  advance  of  me  in 
picking  huckleberries,  I  guess  I  surpassed  him  in  charges 
upon  the  wild  onions.  If  he  saw  any  live,  fighting  In 
dians,  it  was  more  than  I  did;  but  I  had  a  good  many 
bloody  struggles  with  the  mosquitoes  .  .  .  although  I 
never  fainted  from  the  loss  of  blood  .  .  ." 

"Here,  take  it!  "  Walt  chucked  the  newspaper  to  sev 
eral  impatient  bystanders.  "  That's  the  funniest  speech  I've 


THE   ANSWERER  283 

ever  read;  in  a  way  it  beats  Webster!  at  any  rate,  when 
we  all  know  Cass  is  only  a  pressed-pantaloon  militaire." 

At  last  free  of  the  mudbank,  the  canal-boat  progressed 
slowly.  The  voyage — if  one  could  so  call  it — was  full  of 
discomfort ;  without  the  coolness  at  night,  the  journey  would 
have  been,  Walt  felt,  insufferable.  At  Chicago  he  stayed 
for  the  next  day's  steamer  which  would  land  him  eventually 
in  Buffalo;  the  excellence  of  the  American  Temperance 
Hotel,  where  he  slept,  partly  made  up  for  the  weariness  of 
the  journey  North. 

Blue  and  wide  in  the  bright  sunshine  of  the  morning  lay 
the  expanded  waters  of  Lake  Michigan,  and  what  followed 
in  the  next  few  days  was  so  spacious,  so  sight-absorbing,  that 
Walt  spent  long  dreaming  hours  over  it.  Michigan,  Huron, 
Erie! 

"America  always!  "  he  told  himself.  "Always  the  free 
range  and  diversity  ...  the  prairies,  pastures,  forests, 
cities,  travelers,  Canada — the  snows.  Always  these  compact 
lands,  lands  tied  at  the  hips  with  the  belt  stringing  the  huge, 
oval  lakes.  .  .  ." 

When  he  could  bring  himself  to  withdraw  his  eyes  from 
the  surrounding  vision,  when,  for  an  hour  or  so,  the  move 
ment  of  the  ship  in  the  inland  sea  promised  no  new  aspect 
of  the  wonderland  through  which  he  was  passing,  he  busied 
himself  with  his  notebook.  The  phrase  he  had  struck  on, 
as  expressing  the  American  environment  and  its  working, 
"  the  large,  loose  drift  of  character,  unconsciously  forming," 
haunted  the  back  of  his  mind.  He  struggled  for  collateral 
lines,  phrases.  .  .  . 

The  log  at  the  wood-pile,  he  wrote,  the  ax  supported  by  it. 


284  THE   ANSWERER 

.  .  .  The  sentiment  of  the  huge  timbers  of  old-fashion'd 
houses  and  barns.  The  remembered  print  or  narrative,  the 
voyage  at  a  venture  of  men,  families,  goods;  the  outset  any 
where.  The  settlements  of  the  Arkansas,  Colorado,  Ottawa; 
the  slow  progress,  the  scant  fare,  the  ax,  rifle,  saddle 
bags.  .  .  . 

Then,  in  a  briefly-sustained  burst  of  clear,  white  light  of 
inspiration,  the  fist  of  his  disengaged  hand  clenching  and 
unclenching: 

The  beauty  of  all  adventurous  and  daring  persons, 

The  beauty  of  wood-boys  and  wood-men,  with  their  clear  un- 
trimm'd  faces, 

The  beauty  of  independence,  departure,  actions  that  rely  on 
themselves, 

The  American  contempt  for  statutes  and  ceremonies,  the  bound 
less  impatience  of  restraint, 

The  loose  drift  of  character,  the  inkling  through  random  types, 
the  solidification. 

There  he  had  it,  placed,  in  its  setting,  like  a  jewel  .  .  : 
and  the  inspiration  lasting  a  second  longer,  or  with  a  short 
flash  returning,  he  put  down,  as  an  after- thought,  the  line: 

The  large,  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land  .  .  . 

The  pencil  dropped  from  his  fingers;  he  sat  inert,  head 
bent  a  little  forward,  quietly,  deeply  thinking.  A  casual 
speculation  as  to  what  he  would  do  when  he  fetched  back  in 
New  York  drifted  over  the  surface  of  his  thought  as  an  un- 
considered  trifle  floats  on  a  lake's  wide  waters.  He  never 
knew  what  he  would  do.  ...  It  made  no  possible  difference, 
actually,  whether  he  "  nailed  "  again — that's  to  say,  helped 
his  carpenter-brother — or  set  type  in  the  Eagle  office  (he  had 


THE   ANSWERER  285 

no  fool  pride;  wasn't  sensitive  about  descending  from  editor 
to  compositor;  would  as  lief  do  anything  he  could  do  well) ; 
or  whether  he  would  try  to  pick  up  a  living  by  fugitive 
work  as  an  author.  He  could  sell  bits  here  and  there.  .  .  . 
And  that  would  give  him  the  days  he  wanted,  needed,  must 
have — days  for  loitering  on  Broadway  and  mixing  with  the 
crowds  on  the  sidewalks,  days  spent  in  foundries,  shops, 
rolling  mills,  slaughter-houses,  woolen  and  cotton  factories, 
shipyards,  on  wharves;  days  with  people  (all  sorts  of  peo 
ple!)  merrymaking  at  clambakes,  races,  weddings  and  on 
sailing  and  bathing  parties;  days  on  ferries,  in  taverns,  in 
the  interiors  of  prisons,  hospitals  and  poorhouses — at  the 
funerals  of  the  great  and  the  poor.  Nights,  too,  at  the  opera, 
at  plays  of  which  he  was  so  fond,  at  political  meetings,  at 
carousings.  .  .  . 

I  do  not  begin  to  know  the  people,  he  said  to  himself. 

Whatever  I  do,  I  shall  really  be  immersing  myself  in  the 
life  all  about  me.  The  Gulf  Stream!  .  .  .  Whatever  I  do, 
I  shall  be  (now  at  last  consciously)  preparing  myself  for 
this..  His  eye  fell  again  on  the  lines  scribbled  in  his  note 
book.  To  answer,  in  some  fashion,  for  all  America  ...  to 
be,  not  perhaps  worldlily,  but  consciously,  intently  the  Great 
Poet.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  he  sighed.  It  will  take  years,  years!  he  gravely 
acknowledged  to  himself.  Then  aloud,  with  intensity: 

"  Let  it!    Let  it!  "  he  exclaimed. 

END  OF  PART  TWO 


PART  THREE 
DARK  MOTHER 


"  WILLIAM,"  Walt  was  saying,  "  damn  me  if  you  aren't  even 
a  disturbing  influence  as  a  listener!  You  listen — impetu 
ously.  You  have  a  charged,  poised  air;  electrical  in  your 
silence  and  lightning  in  your  discourse!  " 

William  Douglas  O'Connor  laughed,  and  the  laugh  was 
filled  with  his  superb,  spilling  personal  magnetism,  vitality. 
Since  their  first  meeting  in  Boston  in  1860,  two  years  earlier, 
he  and  Walt  Whitman  had  been  immediate,  close  friends. 
The  Irish-American  was  what,  all  his  life,  Walt  felt  he  had 
most  wanted;  the  singer  of  the  Song  of  Myself  was  a  man, 
or  over-man,  whom  O'Connor  could  love,  minister  to,  help 
and  frankly  worship  with  a  worship  intelligent,  not  blind. 
They  were  reciprocally  inspiring  one  to  the  other. 

"On!  On!  Forget  about  me!  "  O'Connor  said  warn- 
ingly.  "  Tell  me  about  Emerson.  Why,  oh,  why  the  devil 
didn't  you  tell  me  about  your  talk  with  him  before?  You 
wouldn't,  or  you  didn't." 

"  I  did,  William!  " 

"  Oh,  the  fact— yes.  But  no  details!  That  was  when  I 
had  known  you  so  short  a  time,  I  couldn't  presume  to  ask  for 
details.  What  did  Emerson  say,  exactly?  What  arguments 
did  he  use  against  the  poems  you've  now  grouped  as  Chil 
dren  of  Adam?  " 

287 


288  THE   ANSWERER 

"Arguments?  He  used  them  all.  Heaps,  loads;  every 
argument  that  ever  was  invented,  I  guess.  I  couldn't  an 
swer  'em;  didn't  try.  But  I  finally  told  him  it  was  no  good. 
No  good,  no  good,  no  good  at  all!  " 

Walt  brought  his  fist  down  on  a  small  table.  His  clear 
eyes  shone  with  a  light  of  vivacity,  amusement  and — some 
thing  excited  but  wholly  serious,  as  if  behind  the  fun  and 
the  frolic  of  the  recollection  there  lay  the  sharp  memory  of 
a  fateful  determination.  The  gray  and  white  so  plentifully 
present  in  his  abundant  hair  and  beard,  so  contrasted  with 
masses  of  hair  still  black,  made  him  ordinarily  look  middle- 
aged  or  even  older.  But  not  at  such  moments  as  this,  when, 
in  close  conversation  one  could  see  the  firm,  smooth  skin  of 
the  upper  cheek,  with  a  good  color;  when  the  direct  light 
of  the  youthful  eyes  shone  upon  his  auditor;  and  when  the 
actuality  of  his  lightly-carried  forty-three  years  was  sud 
denly  impressed  by  a  supple  movement  of  the  muscular  body 
or  the  swift  play  of  a  thrust-out  arm. 

"Arguments,  yes!"  he  resumed,  answering  O'Connor. 
"  Emerson  had  them,  every  one.  But  they  all  came  down 
to  this:  The  certainty,  the  inevitability,  of  being  utterly 
misunderstood.  Mind  you,  William,  Emerson  himself  did 
not  misunderstand;  couldn't  misunderstand,  big,  insighted 
man  that  he  is.  But,  he  said,  and  I  couldn't  controvert 
him:  The  world  will  misunderstand;  the  world  will  say 
this  is  a  naked,  shameless,  indecent,  pornic  fellow,  this  Walt 
Whitman — a  fellow  who  makes  his  toilet  in  public,  who 
counts  nothing  sacred  and  who  knows  no  such  thing  as 
seemly  reticence.  And  Emerson  asked  me:  Is  it  worth 
risking  all  the  message  you  have  for  them  for  the  sake  of 


THE   ANSWERER  289 

this  one  item  of  the  message?  I  didn't  answer.  There 
could  be  no  verbal  answer." 

"Good  God!"  O'Connor's  indignation  flashed  forth, 
touched  with  Keltic  humor.  "Aren't  we  all  naked  under 
our  clothes?  as  I  asked  a  woman  t'other  evening  when  she 
shuddered  at  the  mention  of  you  and  your  Leaves  of  Grass." 

"  Emerson  would  enjoy  that !  " 

"Yes,  I  think  so!  No  one  argues  for  the  recitation  of 
the  Children  of  Adam  poems  in  public  before  large,  mixed 
audiences,  any  more  than  any  one  argues  for  undressing  in 
public.  But  what  I  want  to  know  is:  Don't  these  idiotic 
people  ever  undress  at  all?  Don't  they,  once  in  a  while  at 
least,  take  off  their  clothes  privately?  By  the  same  token, 
don't  they,  occasionally,  if  only  for  a  bath  and  a  change, 
take  off  their  dirty  old  mental  garments  and  consider  them 
selves — their  souls,  their  real  longings,  desires,  ambitions, 
hopes — nakedly,  honestly,  and  without  self-deception? 
Which  are  they,  people  or  ostriches?  .  .  .  Oh,  Walt,  what 
a  shabby,  furtive  state  the  human  mind  goes  about  in!  To 
my  thinking,  it  is  a  disgrace  to  us  that  a  poet  dare  not,  for 
example,  sing  the  super-mortal  raptures  of  the  nuptial 
night." 

"  Right!  You  are  more  than  right,  William.  There 
you've  named  a  common  human  experience  or  ecstacy,  clean, 
healthful,  joyous — a  crowning  moment  of  a  lifetime.  But 
tabu!  One  is  privileged  to  talk  about  other  things  equally 
sacred,  about  God  Himself,  His  nature,  purposes,  character. 
But  one  may  not  talk  freely  about  men  and  women.  Is  it 
right?  I  swear  it  isn't  right!  I  told  Emerson  it  wasn't 
right.  And  Emerson  did  not  deny  the  wrongness  of  it,  but 


290  THE   ANSWERER 

said:    We  must  be  patient,  and  inch  along  toward  freedom; 
we  must  make  haste  slowly.    Then  I  said:    The  world  has 
not  been  moved  forward  by  the  patient  corrections,  small 
adjustments,  of  coral-insect  men  grubbing  steadily  through 
the  ages.     The  world  has  been  pried  up  by  Archimedean 
levers,  by  Savonarolan  bonfires,  by  positive  tortures,  agonies, 
such  as  that  of  France  in  1789;  by  the  flaming  and  fearless 
prophecies  of  Isaiahs  and  by  the  revolutionary  declarations 
of  Galileos.     E  pur  si  muove!     '  Nevertheless,  it  moves! ' 
.  .  .  Emerson  denied  not  that,  either!     Up  and  down  the 
breadth  of  Boston  Common,  between  old  elms,  by  Beacon 
Street,  we  walked  for  two  solid  hours  of  a  bright,  sharp, 
February  midday.    Emerson  did  almost  all  the  talking.    He 
was — is  still,  I  suppose — in  his  prime;  a  keen  mind  in  a 
vigorous  body,  physically  and  morally  magnetic,  full-armed 
and  wielding  with  equal  force  the  emotional  as  well  as  the 
intellectual  weapon.    William,  it  was  a  terribly  one-sided  en 
counter!     He  was  in  overwhelming  force;  he  reconnoitered, 
reviewed,  attacked,  pressed  home,  like  an  army  corps  in 
order,  artillery,  cavalry,  infantry.  .  .  .  But  here  was  the 
deep  paradox!    I  was  outpointed  in  every  direction,  headed 
off,  surrounded,  called  upon  to  surrender,  ringed  about,  tacti 
cally  wiped  off  the  field — and  yet  felt  down  in  my  soul  the 
clear  and  unmistakable  conviction   to  disobey.     Finally, 
1  What  have  you  to  say  to  such  things?  '  Emerson  asked. 
And  I  told  him  candidly:     '  Only  that  while  I  can't  answer 
them  at  all,  I  feel  more  settled  than  ever  to  adhere  to  my 
own  theory,  and  exemplify  it.'    Whereupon  we  went  and 
had  a  good  dinner  at  the  American  House!  " 
"  And  since?  " 


THE   ANSWERER  291 

"Thenceforward  I  never  wavered;  since  then  I've  never 
been  touched  with  qualms,  as,  I'll  confess,  I  had  been  two- 
three  times  before." 

"  Bravo,  Walt!  " 

Walt  appeared  to  muse;  then  laughed. 

"  You  and  I  were  not  made  for  qualms,  William!  Some 
day  we'll  quarrel,  I  suspect.  You  have  a  personal  similarity 
to  Thoreau  extending  beyond  the  circumstance  that  both  you 
and  he  lost  your  jobs  defending  old  John  Brown  of  Har 
pers  Ferry." 

"  Damn  you,  Walt,  I'm  no  Puritan  eccentric  like  Tho 
reau!  " 

"  Thoreau  was  too  narrow,  yes;  a  good  deal  like  the  sharp- 
ended  lead  pencils  he  knew  how  to  make.  The  best  thing  I 
remember  about  Thoreau  was  Emerson's  story.  Emerson 
told  how  '  Henry '  was  jailed  over  night  for  refusing  to  pay 
poll  tax — claimed  all  taxes  were  wrong,  or  something  like 
that.  Word  was  sent  to  Emerson  in  the  morning;  '  Henry  ' 
was  in  the  lockup.  Emerson,  greatly  upset,  presented  him 
self  outside  the  cell ;  the  two  men  faced  each  other  with  the 
bars  between,  Emerson  exclaiming:  '  Henry,  why  are  you 
here?  '  Thoreau,  hair  all  ruffled,  alert,  sleepless,  resembling 
a  defiant  eaglet,  or  cockatoo,  faced  his  benefactor;  de 
manded:  '  Waldo,  why  are  you  not  here?  '  Good,  wasn't 
it!  Emerson  chuckled  himself,  telling  the  story.  That  was 
Thoreau  all  over — anarchistically  individualist." 

"  Whereas  your  Leaves  is  individualistically  cosmic." 

"  Is  it?  I  hope  so,  William.  I  hope  you  are  right.  My 
clear  feeling  was  that  I,  Walt  Whitman,  must  have  some 
thing  to  say  to  and  for  any  man  or  any  woman.  I  must 


292  THE   ANSWERER 

be,  to  the  fullest  possible  stretch,  The  Answerer.  You  re 
member  that  poem?  " 

"Remember!  "    O'Connor  quoted: 

The  gentleman  of  perfect  blood  acknowledges  his  perfect  blood, 
The  insulter,  the  prostitute,  the  angry  person,  the  beggar,  see 

themselves  in  the  ways  of  him;  he  strangely  transmutes  them, 
They  are  not  vile  any  more  .  .  .  they  hardly  know  themselves, 

they  are  so  grown. 

"Aye,"  the  poet  assented.  "As  for  the  Children  of 
Adam  poems,  they  are  a  necessary  part  of  my  avowed  pur 
pose  to  chant,  first  and  always,  '  the  great  Pride  of  man  in 
himself.'  Sex,  amativeness,  yes,  even  animality  has  its  due 
place  in  that  all-embracing  chant;  though  meanings  that 
don't  usually  go  along  with  those  words  are  behind  all  and 
will  duly  emerge,  and  though  the  whole  subject  is  sought  to 
be  lifted  into  a  new  light  and  different  atmosphere.  To  do 
away  with  long-cultivated  shame,  furtiveness  of  thought, 
sneaking  pleasure,  deliberate  debasement  of  the  natural 
senses,  will  be  difficult,  oh,  formidably  difficult!  But  I  do 
believe  we  must  accomplish  it.  If  we  are  to  have  a  superior 
race  of  men  and  women,  healthy  and  well-begotten  children, 
great  natural  persons  and  characters  worthy  of  continental 
America,  we  must,  must  achieve  a  shifted  attitude  toward 
the  thought  and  fact  of  sexuality;  must  accept  it  easily  and 
without  self-consciousness,  naturally  and  proportionally  as 
an  element  in  character,  personality,  the  emotions,  and  as  a 
theme  in  literature  or  any  of  the  arts. 

"  Now,  mind  you,  William,"  Walt  shook  an  earnest  finger. 
"  I  am  not  going  to  argue  the  question  by  itself,  as  Emer 
son  wanted  to.  It  does  not  stand  by  itself.  The  vitality  of 


THE   ANSWERER  293 

it  is  altogether  in  its  relations,  bearings,  significance.  You 
can  no  more  take  it  by  itself  than  you  can  take  the  clef  out 
of  a  symphony  or  the  perspective  out  of  a  picture  or  the 
human  body  apart  from  the  soul.  To  those  who  would 
exalt  the  soul  and  degrade  the  body  in  which  it  is  presently 
enclosed,  I  say:  '  What  God  hath  joined,  no  man  may  put 
asunder!  ' " 

"  Walt,  to  hear  you  say  that — to  have  something  in  me 
leap  up  and  affirm  it,  in  the  face  of  the  whole  world  if  need 
be —  Life  holds  not  many  such  moments  as  this!  " 

Thirty  years  lit  a  torch  from  the  beacon  of  forty-three. 


The  two  men  were  sitting,  this  December  of  1862,  in 
O'Connor's  home  in  the  capital,  Washington.  For  about  a 
year  the  rolls  of  the  Light  House  Bureau  had  carried  O'Con 
nor's  name  as  a  clerk;  he  had  been  for  some  years  a  hus 
band  and  father.  On  this  particular  evening,  the  two  young 
children  being  abed,  Mrs.  O'Connor  had  taken  herself  off 
to  do  some  mending,  leaving  Walt  and  her  husband  to  talk 
their  hearts  out.  Now  she  appeared  at  the  door,  a  news 
paper  in  her  hand. 

"  There's  been  a  severe  battle  at  Fredericksburg,"  were 
her  words,  as  she  came  in  to  them.  "  Almost  a  disaster  for 
us,  I'm  afraid." 

O'Connor  jumped  up  with  an  imprecation. 

"And  we've  no  more  than  got  rid  of  McClellan!  "  he 
cried.  "  Now  Burnside  proves  a  man  of  straw!  Fredericks- 
burg!  Lee's  strongest  position,  of  course;  why  couldn't 
we  have  attacked  him  anywhere  else?  Oh,  the  incompe- 


294  THE   ANSWERER 

tents!  "  He  seized  the  newspaper,  running  rapidly  over  the 
despatches.  "  Burnside's  corps  commanders  appear  all  to 
have  disagreed  with  him.  Damn  Burnside;  for  the  matter 
of  that,  damn  all  his  corps  commanders!  But  there's  one 
man  I'm  sorry  for:  He's  the  man  at  the  end  of  Pennsyl 
vania  Avenue." 

"  The  man  in  the  White  House  "—from  Walt.  And  Mrs. 
O'Connor  said,  simply:  "Yes,  Mr.  Lincoln." 

A  moment's  deep  silence,  and  then  Mrs.  O'Connor  asked: 

"  It's  strange,  isn't  it?  how  we  are  always  thinking  of 
him?  I  can't  explain  it;  but  I  know  when  anything  goes 
terribly  wrong — or  splendidly  right,  either — I  never  seem 
to  think  about  the  general  who  did  the  work,  or  what  the 
result  will  mean  for  or  against  us.  I  always  find  myself 
thinking  anxiously  of  what  it  will  mean  to  Mr.  Lincoln. 
Perhaps  that  is  just  because  he's  the  President  and  has  to 
bear  the  whole  weight;  but  I  don't  believe  so.  I'm  sure  I 
shouldn't  feel  that  special,  almost  tender,  anxiety  about  Mr. 
Seward,  or  Mr.  Chase,  or  Mr.  Stanton.  It  must  be  the  man 
himself.  William  is  the  same  way  and  so,  too,  are  you, 
Walt." 

"The  President,"  said  William  O'Connor  vehemently, 
"  is  the  only  unmistakable  human  asset  the  North  has  got; 
I've  said  so  before  and  I'll  say  so  now." 

"  The  President's  an  asset ;  most  of  the  generals  seem  to 
be  liabilities,"  Walt  admitted.  "  I  hope  we're  still  solvent. 
While  we  have  Lincoln,  I  think  we'll  stay  solvent.  This, 
William,  is  a  man  so  great  he  shrinks  several  sizes  all  the 
people  about  him.  I  guess  that's  back  of  our  feeling?  "  He 
turned  inquiringly  to  Mrs.  O'Connor.  She  nodded,  but  with 


THE   ANSWERER  295 

her  head  on  one  side,  as  if  only  partially  accepting  Walt's 
explanation.  "  William,  little  Philip's  not  so  well  to-night," 
she  told  her  husband. 

"  What,  is  the  boy-child  sick?  "  Walt  asked  at  once  with 
the  utmost  concern. 

"Vaccination  against  smallpox,"  declared  the  father  in 
an  angry  voice.  "  At  least,  they'll  never  convince  me  it's 
anything  else!  Have  you  sent  for  the  doctor?  " — to  the 
mother.  Before  she  could  answer,  the  doorbell  answered  for 
her.  She  hastened  from  the  room,  with:  "  That  will  be 
the  doctor  now  "  reaching  them  in  a  diminuendo. 

"  Go  ahead,  Walt,  with  what  you  were  saying."  But 
after  a  look  at  his  friend's  face,  Walt  said  abruptly: 

"No-no!  Go  to  your  wife,  William;  go  to  little  Phil. 
I'll  just  sit  here  and  glance  over  the  news.  I  won't  leave 
till  I  hear  how  he  is." 

O'Connor  went  out.  Walt  picked  up  the  paper,  but  did 
not  begin  immediately  to  read  it.  For  the  moment  he  could 
not.  He  was  the  father  and  the  mother,  bending  over  the 
crib;  he  was  something  in  the  clutch  of  their  joined  hands, 
twined  fingers,  as  fearfully  they  waited  for  what  the  physi 
cian  would  say.  He  was  the  delicate  boy,  in  a  still  struggle 
with  fever ;  he  was  the  love  of  the  parents  fighting  invisibly 
to  ward  off  the  peril  of  their  son,  and  to  comfort,  to  reassure 
each  other.  All  this  he  was,  because  all  this  he  felt.  .  .  . 
After  a  little  he  picked  up  the  newspaper,  which  had  slipped 
to  the  floor. 

On  an  inside  page  was  a  partial  and  confused,  unalpha- 
betized  list  of  Federal  wounded.  Walt  went  slowly  and 
carefully  through  the  names  of  officers.  Slowly  and  care- 


296  THE   ANSWERER 

fully  .  .  .  what  did  he  expect?  No,  not  expect  .  .  .  hope; 
and  a  negative  hope,  a  hope  not  to  find — 

"Whitman,  George,  captain  513!  Volunteers,  seriously." 

In  a  subdivision  headed  "  N.  Y."  Walt's  hands,  holding 
the  spread  newsprint,  began  to  tremble.  Oh,  poor  Mother! 
was  his  first  clear  thought. 

The  handsome  O'Connor  came  quietly,  quickly  into  the 
room.  The  look  on  his  face  was  frenzied,  the  incomprehen 
sible  shadowed  his  fine  eyes.  Advancing  on  Walt,  seizing 
him  by  the  shoulder  in  a  hurting  grip,  he  whispered: 

"  Little  Philip  can't  ...  the  doctor  says  we're  going  to 
—lose  him.  Oh,  dear  God!  " 

"  I'm  struck  at,  too,  William.  Look!"  And  Walt  showed 
the  line  of  print. 

"Your  brother!  " 

"I  must  go  out,  must  telegraph  Mother  in  Brooklyn; 
then  I'll  stop  back.  Probably  I'll  not  get  to  bed  at  all  this 
night;  in  earliest  morning  I'll  be  starting  for  Fredericks- 
burg.  Now  go  back  to  your  wife,  William,  keep  with  her; 
keep  with  Philip's  mother!  " 

3 

In  the  extreme  disorder  following  Burnside's  bloody  de 
feat,  it  took  Walt  three  days  and  nights,  with  sleep  in 
fugitive  snatches  only,  to  find  George  Whitman,  described 
as  struck  in  the  face  by  the  bursting  of  a  shell  and  seri 
ously  wounded.  When  at  length  brother  had  found  brother, 
the  captain  of  volunteers  was  already  recovering  from  in 
juries  far  less  than  had  at  first  been  supposed. 

But  the  winding  banks  of  the  Rappahannock  seemed,  in 


THE   ANSWERER  297 

numberless  tents  and  in  almost  every  habitation,  to  be 
strewn  with  the  hopeless,  the  frightfully  wounded,  the  muti 
lated,  the  dying.  Thousands  .  .  .  they  were  thou 
sands.  .  .  . 

Death,  like  a  reckless,  largely-winning  player  for  high 
stakes,  seemed  to  be  waiting  nonchalantly  for  each  spin 
ning  of  the  sun  from  dawn  to  dark;  and  at  each  spin  care 
lessly  to  scoop  in  lives  in  huge  handfuls.  Death,  with  dis 
eased  talons,  tore  at  the  Army  of  the  Potomac;  the  pawns 
in  this  desolating  gamble  were  mutinous,  worn  out,  despair 
ing,  afraid.  All  the  corps  commanders  flung  themselves  on 
Burnside  who  had  so  appallingly  blundered.  Burnside  per 
sisted  in  blunder.  It  was  understood  that,  in  Washington, 
the  Commander-in-Chief  had  asked  Halleck  for  an  opinion; 
and  that  Halleck  in  an  access  of  futility  had  replied  by 
offering  to  resign.  Burnside  was  reported  to  be  ready  to 
resign;  "Fighting"  Joe  Hooker  was  alternately  resigning 
and  declaring  that  the  situation,  both  military  and  political, 
demanded  a  Dictator.  Only  Mr.  Lincoln,  it  appeared,  was 
not  privileged  to  resign,  or  fly  into  a  tantrum,  or  lose  his 
head,  or  set  up  as  a  Dictator.  .  .  . 

On  21  December,  1862,  Walt  found  himself  outside  a 
large  brick  mansion  standing  on  the  bank  of  the  Virginian 
river  which  somebody — Burnside,  Hooker  or  whomever  it 
might  fall  to — would  yet  have  to  cross.  At  the  foot  of  a 
tree,  within  thirty  feet  of  the  front  entrance  of  the  house, 
lay  a  heap  of  amputated  feet,  legs,  arms,  hands  ...  a  full 
load  for  a  one-horse  cart.  Near  the  heap  lay  several  corpses, 
each  covered  with  a  brown  woolen,  or  shoddy,  blanket.  In 
the  dooryard,  but  nearer  the  river,  were  a  number  of  fresh 


298  THE   ANSWERER 

graves.  Walt  examined  these;  they  were  mostly  graves  of 
officers  marked  by  the  name  daubed  on  pieces  of  barrel 
staves  or  broken  boards  stuck  in  the  dirt. 

He  went  indoors.  The  house,  facing  the  river,  was  a 
large  house  and  a  fine  house.  Upstairs  and  down  it  was 
packed  with  wounded.  The  inescapable  impression,  though 
quite  unfounded,  was  that  this  residence  had  received  only 
the  worst  cases.  The  men  lay  anywhere  in  their  old  clothes ; 
all  appeared  unclean  and  bloody.  Some  cried  out  continu 
ally  in  pain,  but  a  majority  of  the  victims  lay  sleeping, 
or  feigning  sleep,  or  without  stirring  except  for  the  twitch 
of  eyes  this  way  and  that  and  the  very  slight  movements 
of  their  mouths,  chewing  tobacco.  For  some  reason,  the  act 
of  chewing  conferred  on  these  a  stronger  appearance  of 
stoical  endurance  than  the  rest  bore;  illusive,  yet  real; 
though  actually  they  endured  less  austerely,  the  cud  easing 
them. 

No  order,  no  system,  everything  impromptu,  no  sup 
plies. 

"  I  expect  it's  the  best  that  can  be  done,"  Walt  muttered 
to  himself. 

His  initial  reaction  to  such  sights  and  scenes  had  culmi 
nated  in  a  wave  of  the  intensest  bitterness.  He  had  mentally 
reviewed  two  earlier  hours.  The  first  of  these  was  the 
April  night  when,  after  the  close  of  a  performance  of  an 
opera  in  Fourteenth  street,  New  York,  he  had  been  walking 
down  Broadway,  on  his  way  to  Brooklyn.  Midnight.  A 
series  of  loud  cries  heralded  the  newsboys.  They  came 
tearing  up  the  street,  darting  from  side  to  side  like  frantic 


THE   ANSWERER  299 

swallows.  A  paper  was  thrust  in  his  hand  and  the  coin 
snatched  from  it.  He  crossed  to  stand  under  the  great 
lamps  that  blazed  in  front  of  the  Metropolitan  Hotel — 
"  Niblo's." 

It  was  the  attack  on  Sumter.  A  small  crowd,  perhaps 
thirty  or  forty  persons,  gathered.  For  the  benefit  of  some 
who  had  no  papers,  one  present  read  aloud  the  telegraphic 
despatch.  There  was  great  attention  and  perfect  silence. 
People  listened,  looked  at  the  pavement  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  moved  away  without  speaking,  like  aimless  par 
ticles  on  separate  and  unknown  errands. 

Again:  first  Bull  Run.  At  daylight  in  a  drizzle  of  rain 
which  continued  until  dark,  the  defeated  troops  commenced 
pouring  into  Washington  over  the  Long  Bridge.  It  was  the 
end  of  an  unspeakable  march  of  twenty  miles.  Dust,  grime, 
smoke,  sweated  into  their  clothing  in  layers;  rain  soaking 
them  down.  At  first  sparsely,  then  thicker,  these  enervated 
and  fatigued  scarecrows  appeared  in  the  streets  of  the  capi 
tal,  appeared  in  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  and  sank  down  on 
doorsteps  or  disposed  themselves  in  the  attitudes  of  ex 
treme  exhaustion  in  areaways  and  basement  entrances. 
Their  number  was  constantly  recruited  by  fresh  stragglers 
and  disordered  mobs.  Rarely,  oh,  rarely!  one  saw  incoming 
a  regiment  in  perfect  order,  marching  silently  with  lowering 
faces,  stern,  weary  to  sinking,  all  black  and  dirty  .  .  .  gaps 
in  the  line.  .  .  .  Two  aged  women,  of  very  well  known  fam 
ilies,  stood  at  an  improvised  table  on  the  sidewalk,  serving 
quartered  loaves  of  bread  and  hot  coffee  in  all  that  muddle 
and  drizzle.  .  .  .  Willard's,  the  fashionable  hotel,  was  thick, 


300  THE   ANSWERER 

crushed,  creeping  with  shoulder-straps  (sneak,  blow,  put  on 
airs  there  in  Willard's  sumptuous  parlors  and  barrooms  .  .  . 
/  think  this  is  your  work.  Where  are  your  companies?). 

.  .  .  These  two  earlier  scenes,  notably,  came  back  to  Walt 
as  he  stood  on  the  lawn  overlooking  the  Rappahannock. 
But  the  bitterness  had  gone  from  them;  only  a  residue 
of  remembered  bitterness  remained.  The  infinitely  more 
concentrated  scene  about  him — the  heap  of  human  refuse, 
the  wretched  graves,  the  torture  house  he  had  just  quitted — 
had  an  effect  quite  different  from  anything  else  in  these 
past  twenty  months.  He  felt,  not  bitter,  but — heroic?  At 
any  rate,  lifted  clean  out  of  himself,  out  of  the  war,  out 
of  the  atmosphere  of  hatreds  and  passions,  out  (almost) 
of  every  ordinary  relation,  thought,  preoccupation.  Every 
usual  emotion  was  caught  up  in  the  vast  tide  of  fundamental 
feeling;  not  pity,  but  compassion — which  means  to  "  suf 
fer  with."  He  suffered  with  all  this,  with  all  these,  and  it 
exalted  him  as  he  could  not  remember  ever  to  have  been 
exalted  before. 

Why?  In  what  lay  the  difference?  Should  not  the 
sheer,  dreadful  concentration  of  agony  and  death  within 
a  few  feet  of  him  have  inspired  a  bitterness  intenser  than 
any  he  had  felt  at  more  diluted  sights  of  human  misery? 
Why  did  I  feel  so  bitter  then  and  now  feel  nothing  of 
that  at  all?  he  asked  himself.  Was  it  not  because,  in  what 
I  then  saw,  as  in  Washington  after  first  Bull  Run,  I  saw 
but  could  do  nothing?  The  intuitive,  repressed  feeling  of 
helplessness  distilled  the  gall  of  my  thoughts.  But  now — 
now! — there  is  no  such  intuition  to  be  kept  back,  trod 
under.  Now  I  know  I  can  help. 


THE   ANSWERER  301 

Help!  A  pitiful  handful,  perhaps.  Curiously,  the 
thought  of  how  small  the  help  can  be  does  not  disturb; 
and  the  certitude  I  feel  of  helping — how  that  raises  me 
up!  If  I  can  cheer  one  fellow  I  may  be  the  means  of 
saving  his  life.  .  .  .  What  are  my  own  words?  A  man  is 
a  summons  and  challenge. 

I  must  answer. 

...  He  turned,  reentered  the  house;  spoke  to  the  man 
nearest  the  door  and  continued,  visiting  each  of  the  wounded 
throughout  the  mansion.  With  some  he  talked  only,  to 
one  he  gave  newspapers  asked  for,  for  several  he  wrote 
letters  to  their  folks  at  home. 

I  must  have  something  to  give,  other  days,  he  thought 
as  he  emerged  toward  sundown.  Something,  anything,  even 
if  it's  only  an  apple  or  a  bite  off  a  plug  of  tobacco.  How 
their  faces  lit!  They  need  me,  need  me!  (Perhaps  I  need 
them.)  They  shall  have  me,  all  of  me — all,  all! 

4 

(Perhaps  I  need  them.) 

Beginning  with  this  first  day,  Walt  resolved  to  keep  notes 
of  some  of  the  things  he  heard  and  saw.  He  would,  in 
impromptu  jottings  with  a  pencil,  brief  "  cases,"  persons, 
occurrences  by  bedsides.  For  this  purpose,  two  or  three 
sheets  of  paper,  folded  small  to  pocket-size,  the  folds  slit 
and  fastened  with  a  pin,  served  well  enough.  These  soiled 
and  creased,  sometimes  bloodstained,  livraisons,  or  booklets, 
might  some  day  be  useful. 

December  23  to  31. — The  results  of  the  late  battle  are 
exhibited  everywhere  about  here  in  thousands  of  cases  (hun- 


302  THE   ANSWERER 

dreds  die  every  day),  in  the  camp,  brigade,  and  division 
hospitals.  These  are  merely  tents  and  sometimes  very  poor 
ones,  the  wounded  lying  on  the  ground,  lucky  if  their  blan 
kets  are  spread  on  layers  of  pine  or  hemlock  twigs,  or  small 
leaves.  No  cots;  seldom  even  a  mattress.  It  is  pretty  cold. 
The  ground  is  frozen  hard,  and  there  is  occasional  snow.  I 
go  aroMnd  from  one  case  to  another.  I  do  not  see  that  I 
do  much  good  to  these  wounded  and  dying;  but  I  cannot 
leave  them.  Once  in  a  while  some  youngster  holds  on  to 
me  convulsively,  and  I  do  what  I  can  for  him;  at  any  rate, 
stop  with  him  for  hours,  if  he  wishes  it. 

I  wonder  why  I  feel  such  a  strong  love  for  these  young 
sters?  was  Walt's  meditation  as  he  wrote  this.  It  is  just 
as  strong  as  the  fellow-love  I  used  to  feel,  when  a  youth, 
for  other  youths ;  for  any  handsome  or  affectionate-appearing 
boy  of  my  own  years,  even  a  stranger.  The  feeling  I  have 
tried  to  utter  in  the  Calamus  poems;  it  shocks  many.  Yet 
just  that  feeling,  active  or  latent,  is  the  base  of  any  ap 
proach  to  an  ideal  society,  to  human  brotherhood.  The 
love  of  comrades — just  that.  Boys  quite  commonly  feel 
it;  men  seem  to  think  they  must  be  ashamed  of  such  a 
feeling.  Love,  affection,  for  adults,  must  be  from  one  sex 
to  the  other.  Or  from  father  toward  son,  or  from  mother 
toward  daughter.  But  I  do  not  feel  that  restriction.  I 
wonder  why?  I  wonder! 

True  it  is,  when  I  sit  beside  one  of  these  boy  soldiers 
of  twenty-one  or  younger  (many  younger),  it  lies  in  the 
back  of  my  thought  that  this  boy,  or  a  boy  as  lovable  as 
this,  might  be  my  own  joyfully-recognized  son  if  ...  if 
Esther  .  .  .  but  I  know  that  thought  is  only  a  thread  inter- 


THE   ANSWERER  303 

woven  in  my  whole  feeling.  The  main  flow  of  my  feeling 
is  further  back— at  least  as  far  back  as  adolescence  and 
maybe  farther.  Is  it  possible  that  it  derives  from  my 
dear  mother?  and  if  so,  how?  She  has  always  been  the 
loveliest  woman  in  the  knowledge  of  many  women. 

The  mother  at  home  quietly  placing  the  dishes  on  the  suppertable, 
The  mother  with  mild  words  .  .  .  clean  her  cap  and  gown 

a  wholesome  odor  falling  off  her  person  and  clothes  as  she 

walks  by. 

And  this  also  is  she: 

Behold  a  woman! 

She  looks  out  from  her  Quaker  cap  .  .  .  her  face  is  clearer  and 

more  beautiful  than  the  sky. 

She  sits  in  an  armchair  under  the  shaded  porch  of  the  farmhouse, 
The  sun  just  shines  on  her  old  white  head. 
Her  ample  gown  is  of  creamhued  linen.  .  .  . 

I  have  always,  since  first-remembered  childhood,  nearly  wor 
shiped  my  mother.  I  used  to  think  that  perhaps  more 
of  her  entered  into  me  than  of  my  father;  him  I  loved  and 
yet,  with  us  young  children,  his  hasty  temper  made  him 
sometimes  formidable.  .  .  .  Though  her  silence  would  con 
ceal  it,  I  suspect  my  dear  mother  powerfully  defended  us 
from  Father,  powerfully  and  secretly  willed  that  I,  in  espe 
cial,  should  love  her.  .  .  .  Can  it  be  that  I  inherited,  by 
her  determination  or  otherwise,  a  major  portion  of  her 
affectional  nature?  Perhaps,  largely,  I  am  the  creature  of 
her  Wish,  of  her  deep,  deep,  not  clearly  formulated  Wish; 
perhaps  I  love  her  because  she  is  the  greater  part  of  me; 
perhaps  I  love  those  young  men  whom,  had  they  been 
fleshed  and  about  her  in  younger  days,  she  would  have 
loved.  ...  I  wonder! 
Something  there  is  that  links  spirit  to  spirit,  parent  to 


304  THE   ANSWERER 

child,  even  as  the  body  of  mother  and  child  are  joined; 
why  could  it  not  be  the  secret  Wish — for  so  I  should  prefer 
calling  the  invisible  connection.  That  must  have  been  what 
lay  implicit  in  my  mind  when  I  wrote  several  of  the  lines 
in  the  poem,  There  Was  a  Child  Went  Forth— the  lines: 

His  own  parents, 

He  that  had  father'd  him,  and  she  that  had  conceiv'd  him  in  her 

womb,  and  birth'd  him, 
They  gave  this  child  more  of  themselves  than  that.  .  .  . 

For  sure  it  is,  if  the  physical  and  mental  inheritance  were 
all,  we  could  predict  everything  concerning  the  child  ex 
cept  the  sex,  and  once  he  or  she  was  born,  the  future  body 
and  exact  intelligence  would  be  knowable.  Yet,  never  were 
men  and  women  like  that.  Oh,  I  wonder! 

What  either  flowers  forth  or  struggles  to  flower  forth 
is  the  secret  Wish,  rooted  in  primitive  sex,  visible  only 
as  budding  or  blossoming  emotion.  I  think,  with  due  study 
and  after  long  examination  without  prejudice  as  to  "  good  " 
and  "  evil  "  (for  we  must  go  far  into  the  hinterland  where 
the  mind  is  as  yet  irresponsible  and  "  good  "  and  "  evil " 
exist  not  yet) — I  think  we  shall  find  how  literally  right 
was  Shakespeare  when  he  declared:  "We  are  such  stuff 
as  dreams  are  made  on."  I,  for  example:  Maybe  I  am 
nothing  but  the  stuff  of  my  mo ther's  girlish  dreams  of  young 
lovers.  .  .  .  Innocent,  I;  and  equally  innocent,  she;  the 
real  stuff  of  Life,  the  Wish  and  not  the  Word,  has  been, 
for  a  passing  instant,  bodied  forth  in  her  .  .  .  then  in  my 
self.  .  .  . 

This  would  explain  much;  and  to  complete  the  explana 
tion  but  one  detail  more  is  needed.  How  does  the  Wish 
seek  to  clothe  itself?  for  the  disembodied  Wish  is  always 


THE   ANSWERER  305 

seeking  to  clothe  itself  in  a  form  of  flesh.  It  seeks  that 
other  one,  is  forever  asking  of  every  person  met:  Are  you 
the  New  Person  drawn  toward  me?  Which  is  only  a 
shy  way  of  asking:  Are  you  the  New  Person  who  will 
draw  me  and,  for  a  time  less  or  longer,  house  me?  And 
the  answer  is  read,  or  tends  to  be  read,  almost  instantane 
ously  in  ...  faces. 

Faces !  We  make  them  answer.  I  did  well  when  I  wrote  the 
poem  about  faces — wrought  perhaps  more  truly  than  I  knew. 

The  pure,  extravagant,  yearning,  questioning  artist's  face; 

The  ugly  face  of  some  beautiful  Soul  .  .  . 

The  sacred  faces  of  infants,  the  illumined  face  of  the  mother  of 

many  children; 

The  face  o/  an  amour,  the  face  of  veneration  .  .  . 
The  face  withdrawn  of  its  good  and  bad,  a  castrated  face.  .  .  . 

This  now  is  too  lamentable  a  face  for  a  man; 

Some  abject  louse,  asking  leave  to  be — cringing  for  it; 

Some  milknosed  maggot,  blessing  what  lets  it  wrig  to  its  hole. 

This  face  of  a  healthy  honest  boy  is  the  program  of  all 
good.  This  was  my  Wish  (or,  if  you  like,  my  mother's 
Wish,  or  my  mother's  mother's  Wish)  constantly  and  keenly 
observing,  penetrating,  reviewing,  rejecting,  accepting.  Walt, 
did  you  know  you  were  like  that?  I  order  myself:  Let 
the  buried  Wish  stand  up  clear  and  face  it  boldly  ...  the 
while  I  wonder. 

5 

Besides  the  hospitals,  I  also  go  occasionally  on  long  tours 
through  the  camps,  talking  with  the  men,  etc.  Sometimes 
at  night  among  the  groups  around  the  fires,  in  their  shebang 
enclosures  of  bushes.  These  are  curious  shows,  full  of  char 
acters  and  groups.  I  soon  get  acquainted  anywhere  in  camp, 
with  officers  or  men.  .  .  . 


3o6  THE   ANSWERER 

Christmas  Eve,  '62.  The  half-dozen  men,  Walt  one  of 
them,  were  yarning  around  the  bonfire.  The  brush  palisade 
isolated  them  from  all  the  world,  leaving  them  alone  with 
each  other,  with  their  tiny  fire,  and  with  the  far,  frosty  stars. 

"  I  was  married  two  years  ago  this  night,"  said  suddenly 
a  young  Vermonter,  breaking  a  short  silence.  "  We've  a 
boy,  'bout  a  year  old.  Counting  some  on  seeing  him  the 
first  time,  I  be." 

"  Our  first's  a  year  old,  exactly,  this  night,"  mildly  boasted 
a  Pennsylvanian.  "  Bom  on  Christmas  Eve.  Girl." 

A  pause. 

"  If  the  President  don't  put  Joe  Hooker  in  command 
of  this  army,  Jeff  Davis  will  be  playin'  Santa  Claus  to  us 
all  in  Andersonville  next  Christmas."  The  pessimist,  an 
older  man,  emptied  his  pipe  with  loud  taps  on  the  heel 
of  his  shoe — a  shoe  consisting  of  a  heel  and  a  hole.  He 
looked  disgustedly  at  the  hole.  "  See  that!  " 

"  Coin'  to  hang  up  your  stockin',  Lem,  I  s'pose?  " 

"  Stockin'!  Who  says  I  got  a  stockin'?  I  got  some- 
thin'  I  put  on  my  foot  either  end  up;  makes  no  diff'rence. 
I  got  a  pair  of  anklets,  that's  what  I  got." 

"  Ne'  mind,  Lem.  We're  on  our  way  to  a  warmer  cli 
mate!  " 

At  this  there  was  a  general  laugh. 

"  What  I  can't  see,"  complained  the  man  who  had  been 
rallying  Lem,  "  is  how  old  Abe  in  Washin'ton  figgers  on 
gettin'  anybody  fit  t'  command  this  here  army  agin  Lee — 
now  Little  Mac's  been  retired." 

"Huh!  < Little  Mac'  !  "  countered  Lem  with  a  growl. 
"  Some  of  you  fellers  '11  never  git  it  out  'f  your  heads  that 


THE   ANSWERER  307 

there  ain't  any  gineral  but  McClellan!  McClellan  never 
moved — an'  ef  you  ask  my  opinion,  I  don't  think  he  wanted 
to  whip  Lee,  leastways  he  didn't  want  to  very  hard." 

"HoP  on!  "  "What  call  you  got  t'  say  that,  Lem?  " 
Debate  sputtered,  like  bacon  in  the  frying-pan;  at  moments 
the  speeches  had  an  acrid  flavor,  as  if  some  of  the  fat  were 
spilling  in  the  fire. 

"  Can  any  of  you  fellers  sing?  " 

Walt's  clear,  resonant  question,  in  a  hearty  voice,  brought 
a  surprised  stoppage  of  talk.  Several  answered,  rather  ir 
resolutely  : 

"  Sing?     Well,  y-a-a-s!  " 

"  I  useter  sing  t'  home." 

"  Only  tune  I  know  is  '  John  Brown's  Body.7 " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  some  Christmas  music,"  Walt  ex 
plained.  "  Guess  you  all  know  one  or  two  things — '  While 
Shepherds  Watched'  and  the  like  o'  that.  .  .  ." 

They  did;  enough,  at  any  rate,  knew  the  tunes — scarcely 
the  words.  They  sang,  then,  the  tunes,  repeating  over  and 
over  the  few  remembered  words.  In  the  sharp  air  of  a 
Virginia  winter's  night  the  uncertain  but  powerful  voices 
of  this  handful  of  men  astonished  the  occupants  of  neigh 
boring  shebangs.  The  familiar  hymn  tunes  were  caught 
up  at  other  bivouacs  and  nucleating  bonfires.  A  wavering, 
tremulous  chain  of  singing  spread  up  and  down  the  in 
voluted  banks  of  the  dark  river.  Mysteriously,  one  was 
aware  of  the  ragged  Army  of  the  Potomac  as  having  a 
collective,  enunciable  soul.  Instinctively,  one's  eye  searched 
the  heaven  for  the  portent  of  the  Star.  Adeste,  fideles! 
Laeti,  triumphantes  .  .  . 


3o8  THE   ANSWERER 

Far  up  and  down  the  bloodied  banks  of  the  winding 
river,  far  into  the  miraculous  Night,  extended  the  singing. 


Early  in  the  new  year,  eighty-fifth  year  of  These  States, 
Walt  found  himself  leaving  camp  at  Falmouth,  Virginia, 
and  accompanying  wounded  men  by  rail  and  by  boat  to 
Washington.  The  rail  journey,  on  the  Aquia  Creek  Rail 
road,  was  made  with  the  injured  men  piled  in  careful, 
close  rows  on  flat  cars — "  platform  cars  "  as  they  were 
called.  The  start  was  an  hour  before  sunrise,  but  the  sun 
was  up  before  the  train  had  completed  the  dozen  miles  of 
track.  Sentries  with  rumpled  hair  and  half-awake  look, 
cavalry  camps  in  the  distance,  were  the  only  diversion  on 
the  journey.  On  reaching  Aquia  Creek  Landing,  more 
wounded  were  found  waiting.  At  length  all  were  got  aboard 
the  government  steamer,  which  proceeded  up  the  Potomac. 

Walt  found  himself  constantly  busy.  "  Only  trouble  is," 
he  explained  humorously  to  a  boy  who  held  tight  to  his 
hand,  "  there  ain't  enough  of  me  to  go  'round.  Son,  that 
fellow  over  there  wants  me  to  write  a  letter  to  his  mother. 
I'll  stop  back."  Reluctantly  the  fingers  let  him  go. 

Dear  Madam:  This  is  a  letter  from  your  son,  Charles, 
written  hastily  on  a  Government  boat  by  a  friend  of  your 
son  and  of  other  soldiers.  Charles  was  hit  in  the  leg  and 
side  at  Fredericksburg  that  eventful  Saturday,  13th  of  De 
cember.  He  lay  the  succeeding  two  days  and  nights  help 
less  on  the  field,  between  the  city  and  terraces  of  batteries; 
his  company  and  regiment  had  been  compell'd  to  leave  him 
to  his  fate.  To  make  matters  worse,  it  happened  he  lay  with 


THE   ANSWERER  309 

his  head  slightly  downhill,  and  could  not  help  himself.  At 
the  end  of  some  fifty  hours  he  was  brought  off,  with  other 
wounded,  under  a  flag  of  truce.  I  ask  him  how  the  rebels 
treated  him  as  he  lay  during  those  two  days  and  nights 
within  reach  of  them — whether  they  came  to  him — whether 
they  abused  him?  He  answers  that  several  of  the  rebels, 
soldiers  and  others,  came  to  him  at  one  time  and  another. 
A  couple  of  them,  who  were  together,  spoke  roughly  and 
sarcastically,  but  nothing  worse.  One  middle-aged  man, 
however,  who  seem'd  to  be  moving  around  the  field,  among 
the  dead  and  wounded,  for  benevolent  purposes,  came  to  him 
in  a  way  he  will  never  j  or  get;  treated  Charles  kindly,  bound 
up  his  wounds,  cheer'd  him,  gave  him  a  couple  of  biscuits 
and  a  drink  of  whiskey  and  water;  asked  him  if  he  could 
eat  some  beef.  This  good  secesh,  however,  did  not  change 
Charles's  position,  for  it  might  have  caused  the  blood  to- 
burst  from  the  wounds,  clotted  and  stagnated.  Charles  has 
had  a  pretty  severe  time;  has  been  carefully  tended  for  the 
past  fortnight  and  is  now  in  shape  to  be  mov'd  on  this  short 
trip  up  the  Potomac  to  Washington.  There  you  will  hear 
from  him  in  a  day  or  two  more,  telling  you  what  hospital  he 
is  in,  etc.  If  possible  I  shall  keep  track  of  him  and  write 
myself ;  if  I  lose  track,  will  surely  find  him  in  a  few  days 
at  the  outside,  and  meanwhile  you  will  probably  have  been 
notified  his  whereabouts.  Charles  sends  his  love  and  I  can 
add,  sitting  here  and  talking  with  him,  seeing  him  smile, 
that  he  retains  a  good  heart,  and  is  at  present  on  the  gain. 
(It  is  not  uncommon  for  the  men  to  remain  on  the  field  this 
way,  one,  two,  or  even  four  or  five  days.) 

W.  W. 


3io  THE  ANSWERER 

7 

All  Washington  seemed  to  be  slowly  converting  into  a 
hospital.  There  were  the  Eighth  Street,  the  Armory  Square, 
the  Campbell,  the  H  Street,  and  even  the  Patent  Office  was 
being  utilized.  In  three  very  large  apartments  on  the  second 
story  of  the  spreading  building  devoted  to  Invention, 
wounded  men  were  niche'd  in  close  rows.  Laid  in  the  nar 
row,  deep  lateral  openings  between  high  and  ponderous 
glass  cases  crowded  with  models,  the  badly  hurt  and  dying 
men,  with  emaciated  faces  and  unmoving  bodies,  gave  an 
impression  of  still  unresurrected  mortals  entombed  in  an 
elaborate  sarcophagus  and  accompanied,  like  the  Egyptian 
dead,  by  propitiatory  gifts,  bizarre  and  costly,  intricate, 
hideous  and  beautiful.  At  night  the  blare  of  gas-lights 
lit  up  for  them  and  for  the  transfixed,  appalled  visitor  deli 
cate  articulations,  in  wood  and  metal,  of  every  kind  of 
utensil  or  machine  it  had  entered  the  mind  of  man  to  con 
ceive  ;  the  wildest  visions  of  insane  conjecture  were  suddenly 
thrown  into  relief  as  embodied  realities,  and  the  lucid  sim 
plicities  of  genius  were  exposed  in  their  three-dimensional 
and  triumphant  perfection.  Look!  Here  is  what  Man  has 
wrought!  Here  in  the  case  of  polished  and  gleaming  glass> 
here  on  the  rumpled  bed-cot.  .  .  . 

This  effect  of  the  scene  upon  the  imaginative  mind,  greater 
probably  than  any  designed  scheme  could  have  achieved, 
was  not  reproduced  in  the  thoughts,  curiosities  and  passing 
preoccupations  of  those  who  lay  in  the  improvised  and 
wholly  temporary  hospital.  Imaginative  minds  are  thank 
fully  few.  A  wounded  soldier  able  to  turn  his  head  and 


THE   ANSWERER  311 

study  the  astounding  contraption  enthroned  beside  his  bed, 
asked  Walt: 

"  Friend,  what  air  thet?    Read  me  the  label." 

Walt  made  the  circuit  of  the  glass  case,  reporting: 

"  It's  a  perpetual-motion  machine — anyway,  that's  what 
Oscar  Terwilliger  of  Catamount,  Kentucky,  meant  it  to 
be." 

"Won't  it  go?" 

"Why,  yes;  I  guess  so.    Trouble  is,  it  stops." 

"  Oh,  I  see.    When  y'  don't  want  it  to." 

"  Aim  was,  for  it  never  to  stop." 

"  Whut,  never?  Who'd  want  an  injin  he  couldn't  stop? 
Quit  foolin'  me.  .  .  ." 

Walt  spent  a  while  explaining  the  utility  of  perpetual 
motion,  if  it  could  be  arrived  at.  The  soldier  was  uncon 
vinced.  For  example,  Walt  instanced  a  clock  that  would 
never  need  winding.  But  the  other  only  declared  he  wouldn't 
have  such  a  clock  around. 

"  A  clock  that  'd  never  run  down  'd  give  me  the  creep- 
an'-crawl.  ...  I'd  wake  up  in  the  night,  get  out  o'  bed 
and  go  downstairs,  light  the  lamp,  look  at  the  clock  to  see 
ef  it  hadn't  struck  work.  .  .  .  We  don't  want  nothin'  'at 
goes  on  forever." 

"  Mebbe  not.  Mebbe — not!  "  Something  in  the  thought 
struck  on  something  in  Walt. 

Forever!  No,  we  didn't  want  anything  that  went  on 
forever.  We  didn't  want  life,  or  death,  or  even  love  that 
would  last  .  .  .  forever.  Why?  In  anything  that  endured 
forever  there  was  an  implied  changelessness.  The  thing 
eternal  was  the  thing  without  growth.  And  growth  alone 


3i2  THE   ANSWERER 

was  the  memorable  ecstacy.    Not  to  live  unchanging,  like 
a  stone,  but  to  grow.  .  .  . 

8 

To  grow! 

One  day  Walt  saw  a  copy  of  a  letter  just  written  (26 
January,  1863)  to  General  Hooker.  It  ran: 

"General:  I  have  placed  you  at  the  head  of  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac.  Of  course  I  have  done  this  upon  what 
appear  to  me  to  be  sufficient  reasons,  and  yet  I  think  it  best 
for  you  to  know  that  there  are  some  things  in  regard  to 
which  I  am  not  quite  satisfied  with  you.  I  believe  you  to 
be  a  brave  and  skilful  soldier,  which  of  course  I  like.  I  also 
believe  you  do  not  mix  politics  with  your  profession,  in 
which  you  are  right.  You  have  confidence  in  yourself,  which 
is  a  valuable  if  not  an  indispensable  quality.  You  are  ambi 
tious,  which,  within  reasonable  bounds,  does  good  rather 
than  harm;  but  I  think  that  during  General  Burnside's  com 
mand  of  the  army  you  have  taken  counsel  of  your  ambition 
and  thwarted  him  as  much  as  you  could,  in  which  you  did 
a  great  wrong  to  the  country  and  to  a  most  meritorious  and 
honorable  brother  officer.  I  have  heard,  in  such  a  way  as 
to  believe  it,  of  your  recently  saying  that  both  the  army  and 
the  government  needed  a  dictator.  Of  course  it  was  not  for 
this,  but  in  spite  of  it,  that  I  have  given  you  the  command. 
Only  those  generals  who  gain  successes  can  set  up  dictators. 
What  I  now  ask  of  you  is  military  success,  and  I  will  risk 
the  dictatorship.  The  government  will  support  you  to  the 
utmost  of  its  ability,  which  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  it 
has  done  and  will  do  for  all  commanders.  I  much  fear  that 


THE   ANSWERER  313 

the  spirit  whkh  you  have  aided  to  infuse  into  the  army,  of 
criticizing  their  commander  and  withholding  confidence  from 
him,  will  now  turn  upon  you.  I  shall  assist  you  as  far  as 
I  can  to  put  it  down.  Neither  you  nor  Napoleon,  if  he  were 
alive  again,  could  get  any  good  out  of  an  army  while  such 
a  spirit  prevails  in  it;  and  now  beware  of  rashness.  Beware 
oj  rashness,  but  with  energy  and  sleepless  vigilance  go  for 
ward  and  give  us  victories. 


The  golden-haired,  cherub-countenanced  young  man  who 
showed  the  copy  of  this  letter  to  Walt  was  John  Hay,  one 
of  Mr.  Lincoln's  secretaries,  and  one  of  several  warmly  en 
thusiastic,  admiring  youths  who  were  drawn  first  to  the 
author  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  and,  irresistibly  thereafter,  to 
the  personality  of,  not  the  poet  indeed,  but  the  man  Walt 
Whitman.  "  The  two  Johns,"  Walt  was  already  in  the 
habit  of  saying,  affectionately  jesting,  of  John  Hay  and 
John  Burroughs;  and  then,  with  a  glance  at  O'Connor 
who  was  usually  present,  "and  the  one  William."  For 
he  felt — they  all  did — that  about  O'Connor  there  was  some 
thing  (manner,  magnetism,  wit?)  perishable,  perhaps,  but 
incomparable. 

Finishing,  Walt  struck  the  letter  with  his  hand,  exclaim 
ing: 

"He  grows!  John,  doesn't  it  daily  amaze,  awe,  almost 
scare  you — you  who  see  him  constantly — to  observe  him 
growing?  Can't  you  figure  out  his  secret?  capture  the 
recipe?  Year  ago,  we  had  a  President  who  was  patiently 
trying  to  hit  upon  a  way  to  handle  McClellan;  laboriously 


3H  THE   ANSWERER 

setting  out  to  teach  an  old  dog  new  tricks  or,  at  least,  make 
him  perform  his  old  ones.  A  patient,  awkward  man  among 
the  animals!  Now,  what?  We  have  a  gentle  but  indomit 
able  master.  Not  a  bully,  not  a  man  with  a  whip!  No 
slave-driver,  no  overseer,  no  cunning  and  crafty  politician  to 
whom  men  are  puppets  pulled  by  wires.  But  a  man,  big, 
big!  with  overshadowing  height,  farthest-spreading  shoul 
ders,  and  instantly-sensed,  quickly-obeyed,  powerfullest 
mind.  By  God,  John!  such  a  man,  once  in  hundreds  of 
years,  is  all  the  advance  of  civilization,  the  one  step  forward 
we  are  able  to  take!  " 

"  I  want  you  to  meet  him.  I  want  to  fix  it,  some  day," 
said  Hay,  eagerly. 

"  Meet  him?  "  Walt  shook  with  the  heartiness  of  his 
laughter.  "  Fve  already  met  him.  Eh?  You  know  what 
I  mean!  Only  way  to  meet  a  man  like  Mr.  Lincoln  is  to 
grasp  him.  The  puny,  the  little-minded,  never  can.  How 
many,  do  you  suppose,  who  shake  his  hand  and  say  some 
thing  meet  him?  .  .  .  But  I  hope  to  do  that,  of  course, 
some  day.  If  you  fix  it,  you  spoil  it;  accomplish  nothing. 
Highly-purposed,  it  will  come.  .  .  ." 

9 

Though  the  third  edition  of  his  Leaves  of  Grass,  pub 
lished  in  1860,  was  far  ampler  than  the  volume  that  the 
great  Emerson  had  saluted  so  prophetically  in  1855,  Walt 
had  known  from  the  beginning  of  the  secession  war  how  far 
from  final  the  book  of  1860  must  be.  In  intervals  of  his 
work  among  the  wounded  he  was  busy  with  thoughtful 
revisions  of  his  book.  The  changes,  on  the  whole,  were 


THE   ANSWERER  315 

not  many;  often  he  would  scratch  out  words,  writing  in 
others,  only  to  cross  out  the  emendation  and  restore  the 
first  phrasing.  At  this  intermittent  task  few  ever  caught 
him;  but  the  angel-faced  John  Hay,  stealing  an  hour  from 
secretarial  duties,  was  one  of  the  detective  few. 

Bits,  scraps  of  paper  were  scattered  all  over  the  small 
deal  table  at  which  Walt  pensively  sat;  loose  sheets  of 
paper  littered  the  floor  and  had  drifted  into  corners  of  the 
room;  they  were  so  numerous  that  their  imperceptible  in 
dividual  thinnesses  formed  visible  thicknesses  and  made  the 
floor  an  uneven  surface  to  walk  on.  Uneven  and  slippery; 
John  Hay,  treading  with  no  special  care,  felt  his  feet  fly 
suddenly  from  under  him  and  sat  down  with  a  bang  which 
made  the  room  shake. 

"John!  Is  that  the  way  you  go.  about  the  White 
House?-"  asked  the  poet,  looking  up  with  a  start. 

"  You're  an  untidy  beast,  Walt,"  grumbled  the  youngster, 
getting  up  and  cautiously  feeling  posterior  parts.  "  I  sup- 
pose  it  comes  of  working  in  a  newspaper  office,  this  mess." 
He  surveyed  the  room.  "  What  are  you  fussing  with?  Is 
it  a  new  poem?  " 

"  There  are  no  new  poems.  .  .  .  No,  I've  been  tinkering 
with  my  Poem  of  Many  in  One.  It  will  want  some  altera 
tions.  A  new  commencement: 

As  I  sat  alone,  by  blue  Ontario's  shore, 
As  I  mused  of  these  mighty  days  .  .  . 

Then,  throughout,  slight,  significant  changes  absorbing  into 
it  the  lessons  of  these  years  of  war." 

"'By  blue  Ontario's  shore,'"  repeated  John  Hay. 
"That's  very  musical,  very  evocative,  altogether  lovely! 


316  THE   ANSWERER 

For  a  bit  like  that,  it  seems  to  me  the  poets  of  strict  meter 
and  delicate  riming  might  forgive  you  something." 

"  Scarcely,  John,  scarcely!  A  wrong  may  be  forgiven; 
but  to  forgive  a  difference  is  not  so  easy.  Custom,  habit! 
The  world  forges  its  own  shackles;  let  every  one  wear  them  I 
But  this  poem:  Year  after  my  book  first  appeared,  I  wove 
much  of  the  prose  preface  to  the  first  Leaves  into  this 
Poem  of  Many  in  One.  More  must  now  be  interwoven. 
I  have  written  this,  to  go  in  at  some  place: 

(Angry  cloth  I  saw  there  leaping! 

I  stand  again  in  leaden  rain,  your  flapping  folds  saluting ; 

I  sing  you  over  all,  flying,  beckoning  through  the  fight — 0  the 
hard-contested  fight! 

O  the  cannons  ope  their  rosy- flashing  muzzles!  the  hurtled  balls 
scream! 

The  battle-front  forms  amid  the  smoke — the  volleys  pour  in 
cessant  from  the  line; 

Hark!  the  ringing  word,  Charge! — now  the  tussle,  and  the  furious 
maddening  yells; 

Now  the  corpses  tumble  curl'd  upon  the  ground, 

Cold,  cold  in  death,  for  precious  life  of  you, 

Angry  cloth  I  saw  there  leaping.) 

Tell  me,  is  it  good?  Do  you  embrace  it,  John?  Or  is  it 
flawed?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  perfect.  That  phrase  for  the  flag — 
'  angry  cloth  ' ! — and  the  pounce  of  the  verb,  i  leaping ' ! 
The  antithesis  in  the  next  to  the  last  line,  also;  where  you 
say:  '  Cold  in  death,  for  precious  life  of  you/  .  .  .  But 
the  best  thing  of  all  is  the  way  the  eye  is  sent  to  the  flag, 
which  is  made  to  seem  a  thing  alive,  then  carried  to  the 
battlefield  and  then  drawn  back  again  to  the  flag,  to  the 
symbol  for  which  men  are  dying." 

"  In  this  passage  here,  I  aim  to  add  two  lines.  The  part 
about  individuals. 


THE   ANSWERER  317 

Underneath  all,  individuals! 

The  American  compact  is  altogether  with  individuals  .  .  . 

I  think  somewhere  in  here,  to  enforce  the  point  with  a  sharp 
and  memorable  illustration,  I  will  add: 

(Mother!   with  subtle  sense  severe — with   the  naked  sword  in 

your  hand, 
1  saw  you  at  last  refuse  to  treat  but  directly  with  individuals.) 

That  seems  to  me  just  the  thrust,  just  the  reminder  needed 
out  of  the  personal  experience  of  us  all." 

"  Yes,  but  do  you  realize  that  it  is  beautifully,  exquisitely 
cadenced  poetry?  That  the  greatest  poet  that  ever  lived, 
in  his  most  magnificent  moment,  couldn't  have  achieved 
anything  finer  than  the  choice  and  balance  of  words  in  that 
single  line?  '  Mother  .  .  .  subtle  sense  severe  .  .  .  naked 
sword  .  .  .  hand.' ': 

"John,  hush!     You  praise  as  excessively  as  William." 

"  The  thought  is  historically  true,"  continued  Hay,  reflec 
tively.  "  I  mean  the  thought  that  we  are  treating  only 
with  individuals.  Of  course,  in  our  view,  the  Confederacy 
doesn't  exist;  a  civil  rebellion  on  the  part  of  certain  individ 
uals,  persons,  exists;  a  rebellion  on  the  part  of  some  civil 
governments,  individual  States,  exists.  For  a  poet,  you  are 
an  unusually  good  statesman!  " 

"Spell  it  with  a  capital  '  S,'  John;  make  it  two  words 
linked  with  an  apostrophe.  I  am  a  States'  Man,  above  all 
— the  poet  has  always  come  afterward  with  me." 

"  Only  the  other  day,"  Hay  was  saying,  "  Mr.  Lincoln 
came  again  upon  that  favorite  phrase  in  army  orders  about 
'  driving  the  invader  from  our  soil.'  It  made  him  despair, 
as  it  always  does,  and  he  exclaimed :  l  Will  our  generals 


3i8  THE   ANSWERER 

never  get  that  idea  out  of  their  heads?  The  whole  coun 
try  is  our  soil.'  " 

"  So  it  is,  so  it  is!  But  it  takes  a  clear  vision  like  the 
President's  not  to  lose  the  perception  in  such  a  time  as  this. 
Hay,  watch  your  man  closely;  study  him;  memorize  his 
slightest  gesture;  treasure  up  the  unconsidered  trifles  of  his 
talk.  You  are  living  with  a  man  who  is  as  great  as  any 
the  world  has  ever  seen;  I  know,  feel  so!  Greater  than 
Napoleon,  I  am  sure;  greater  than  Cromwell;  greater  than 
the  Caesars  or  the  Charlemagnes  of  misty  memory.  Real 
ize  this;  realize  also  that  this  man  is  not  known  (if  indeed 
he  ever  can  fully  be  known)  to  his  people  or  to  other  peo 
ples.  But  some  day  he  must  be  known;  perhaps,  yes  prob 
ably,  it  will  devolve  most  heavily  upon  you  to  tell  the  world 
about  him — you  who  have  been  with  him  constantly,  are 
now,  night  and  day.  And  to  discharge  your  task,  you  must 
have  known,  must  have  comprehended  him,  yourself,  in  all 
his  immensity,  variety,  resource,  bravery.  Even  then  you 
may  not  be  able  to  make  the  world  understand  .  .  .  but 
you  will  have  done  something  to  make  the  world  understand; 
you  will  have  served  humanity  well — oh,  well!  " 

"  I'd  ask  nothing  larger,  Walt,  than  just  this  chance  to 
be  with  him,  watch  him,  and  learn  what  I  can." 

After  Hay  had  gone,  Walt  continued  amid  the  litter  to 
work  at  the  modification  of  the  poem,  one  of  his  longer 
ones.  For  a  while,  after  repeated  perusals  and  a  period 
of  motionless  reflection,  he  did  nothing  but  draw  his  pencil 
again  and  again  through  certain  lines,  adding  nothing  in 
place  of  what  he  crossed  out.  Eventually  eleven  lines  had 
dwindled  to  five,  which  read: 


THE   ANSWERER  319 

O  1  see  now,  flashing,  that  this  America  is  only  you  and  me, 

Its  power,  weapons,  testimony,  are  you  and  me, 

Its  crimes,  lies,  thefts,  defections,  slavery,  are  you  and  me, 

Its  Congress  is  you  and  me — the  officers,  capitals,  armies,  ships, 

are  you  and  me, 
Its  endless  gestations  of  new  States  are  you  and  me  .  .  . 

The  concluding  line  reminded  him  that  certainly  within  a 
few  weeks  or  months  West  Virginia  would  be  admitted  as  a 
State  of  the  Union ;  this  despite  the  agony  of  destructive  civil 
war;  and  in  the  remote  reaches  of  the  Far  West  was  the 
Territory  of  Nevada,  already  pressing  for  Statehood.  .  .  . 
How  wonderful  that  in  the  midst  of  this  crisis  and  struggle 
the  Union  could  still  go  on,  expanding,  renewing  itself.  .  .  . 

A  great  surge  of  feeling  swept  Walt.  And  suddenly,  with 
the  utmost  vividness  and  distinctness,  he  remembered  a 
dream  of  his  youth,  a  dream  of  being  somewhere  in  a  neu 
tral,  misty  region  and  at  a  little  distance  there  sat  a  crea 
ture  enthroned.  .  .  . 

He  knew  she  was  a  woman,  but  whom  he  could  not  tell, 
and  her  face  was  hidden,  turned  away  from  him.  As  he 
regarded  her  speechlessly,  for  how  long  a  time  he  could  not 
have  told,  slowly  her  head  turned  toward  him  and  her 
face  shone  upon  him. 

The  effect,  instant  and  terrible,  had  been  that  he  had 
flung  himself  on  the  ground  at  her  feet,  with  shaking  hands 
that  caught  the  hem  of  her  robe  and  drew  it  to  his  twisting 
lips.  He  did  this  conscious  only  of  an  irresistible  and  over 
whelming  impulsion  from  within,  as  if  the  pure  and  benefi 
cent  light  of  an  immortal  countenance  had  struck  into  his 
soul  and  set  it  free  in  a  realm  of  ether  lit  by  a  single 
glance.  ...  He  had  seen  her  face  as  one  sees  the  sun 
and  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  it.  He  could  only  know 


320  THE   ANSWERER 

that  she  shone  upon  him  kindly;  could  only  know,  sense 
her  to  be  a  Woman.  .  .  . 

This  he  had  dreamed.  .  .  .  West  Virginia;  far  Neva 
da.  ... 

The  pencil  moved  steadily  over  a  blank  sheet  of  paper. 
He  read  the  result  aloud. 

(Democracy!   while   weapons  were   everywhere  aim'd  at  your 

breast, 
I  saw  you  serenely  give  birth  to  immortal  children — saw  in  dreams 

your  dilating  form; 
Saw  you  with  spreading  mantle  covering  the  ^vorld.) 

IO 

He  wore  his  haversack  over  his  shoulder  and  as  he  went 
from  bed  to  bed  they  turned  their  heads,  or  lifted  them, 
showing  pale,  frightened,  smiling,  or  sick  and  beseeching 
faces;  they  drank  in  his  approach  as  if  it  were  a  healing 
odor  like  balsam  liberated  in  the  hospital's  close  air.  And, 
pausing  at  every  bedside,  Walt  unshouldered  the  huge  coil 
that  was  his  burden,  diving  into  it  for  some  gift.  .  .  .  For 
one,  an  orange;  for  another,  a  little  box  of  writing  paper; 
here  he  gave  a  small  sheet  of  postage  stamps  and  for  the 
next  man  there  were  two  home  newspapers.  To  many  he 
also  gave  tobacco;  a  little  jar  of  raspberries  came  to  light 
for  the  sixteen-year-old  boy  whose  leg  had  been  taken  off 
below  the  knee.  The  next  patient  required,  not  a  reach 
within  the  haversack,  but  a  hand  slipped  in  a  coat  pocket; 
from  which  was  duly  extracted  and  quietly  pressed  into  a 
reluctant  palm  a  small  sum  of  money.  The  soldier  red 
dened;  his  wrist  resisted;  then,  as  the  color  ebbed  from  his 
face,  with  averted  eyes,  his  fingers  closed  tightly  over  the 
coins.  He  finally  said,  in  a  very  low  voice: 


THE   ANSWERER  321 

"  I  hadn't  a  cent.     I—" 

"I  sent  the  word — a  telegraphic  message.  Then  I  sat 
down  and  wrote  her,  to  make  sure,  not  to  come  on,  as  you 
will  surely  get  well." 

«  j j » 

"  Don't  try  to  say  it.  Mind,  your  throat!  We'll  talk 
next  week,  when  it's  rested.  .  .  ." 

As  almoner  of  others,  Walt  appeared  to  have  the  illimit 
able  resources  of  a  Santa  Claus.  He  stopped  in  the  aisle, 
remarking  to  himself: 

"Lord  'a'  massey!  Looks  to  me  as  if  I'd  enough  stuff 
to  go  through  the  next  ward  entire." 

Figs  and  sweet  crackers  "  stretched  out."  A  packet  of 
stamped  envelopes  went  around  easily ;  one  apiece  and  three 
left  over;  these  given  extra  on  a  show  of  hands  requesting 
them.  This  ward  of  the  Campbell  Hospital  was  being 
cleaned  up  and  all  the  men  were  receiving  clean  clothes. 
Much  fun  reigned  among  the  men  dressing  or  being  dressed, 
with  naked  chests  and  bare  feet  and  a  great  tossing  to  and 
fro  of  shirts,  underwear  and  even  pillows. 

In  the  afternoon,  Walt  pilgrimaged  to  Armory  Square 
Hospital.  There  was  a  disagreeable  case,  perforation  of 
the  bladder  by  a  bullet,  which  he  had  on  his  mind  from  the 
day  before.  In  spite  of  the  disheartening  circumstances, 
this  fellow  was  of  cheerful  mind;  he  is  a  handsome  boy, 
Walt  thought,  as  he  stood  beside  the  bed.  Yes  ...  a 
bright  face.  The  almoner  fetched  out  a  stick  of  hore- 
hound  candy. 

The  lad  was  delighted.    He  sucked  a  little,  remarking: 

"  This'll  be  good  for  my  bad  throat." 


322  THE   ANSWERER 

Down  the  aisle  a  group  of  surgeons  and  nurses  were  con 
gregating.  From  the  neighborhood  of  a  fearful  wound  in 
a  fearful  condition  some  loose  splinters  of  bone  were  being 
removed.  This  tedious  operation  seemed  to  Walt  to  be 
performed  with  great  tenderness,  and,  once  it  was  fairly 
under  way,  the  soldier,  propped  up  in  bed,  bore  it  with 
uncomplaining  silence.  Much  wasted,  noted  Walt  in  one 
of  his  jottings.  Had  lain  a  long  time  quiet  in  one  position 
(not  for  days  only  but  weeks),  a  bloodless,  brown-skinned 
face,  with  eyes  full  of  determination — belonged  to  a  New 
York  regiment.  .  .  .  Not  far  away  a  wife  sat  by  the  side 
of  her  husband,  dangerously  ill  with  typhoid.  In  the  next 
ward,  a  mother  sat  with  her  son.  She  tells  me  she  has  seven 
children,  and  this  is  the  youngest.  (A  fine,  kind,  healthy, 
gentle  mother,  good-looking,  not  "very  old,  with  a  cap  on  her 
head,  and  dress'd  like  home — what  a  charm  it  gave  to  the 
whole  ward.)  I  liked  the  woman  nurse  in  ward  E — /  noticed 
how  she  sat  a  long  time  by  a  poor  fellow  who  just  had,  this 
morning,  in  addition  to  his  other  sickness,  bad  hemorrhages — 
she  gently  assisted  him,  relieved  him  of  the  blood,  holding 
a  cloth  to  his  mouth,  as  he  coughed  it  up — he  was  so  weak 
he  could  only  just  turn  his  head  over  on  the  pillow.. 

But  the  many  of  them!  Page  after  page  of  Walt's  little 
improvised  booklets  was  needed  for  the  barest  record  of 
names,  regiments,  condition  of  the  wounded  and  an  abbre 
viated  note  of  a  man's  home  folks.  Marcus  Small,  Com 
pany  K,  Seventh  Maine;  dysentery  and  typhoid;  talks  of 
being  able  soon  to  visit  his  people  in  East  Livermore  (speaks 
in  a  feeble  voice — I  hold  his  hand  and  do  most  of  the  talk 
ing).  Thomas  Lindly,  First  Pennsylvania  Cavalry;  shot 


THE   ANSWERER  323 

very  badly  through  the  foot;  has  to  be  constantly  dosed  with 
morphine; — his  face  ashy  and  glazed,  bright  young  eyes; 
I  give  him  a  large  handsome  apple,  lay  it  in  sight,  tell  him 
to  have  it  roasted  in  the  morning,  as  he  generally  feels 
easier  then,  and  can  eat  a  little  breakfast.  I  write  two 
letters  for  him.  ...  An  old  Quaker  lady  sitting  by  the  side 
of  her  son,  Amer  Moore,  Second  U.  S.  Artillery,  shot  in 
the  head  two  weeks  since,  from  hips  down  paralyzed. 
Thirty  wide  four-horse  wagons  used  as  ambulances  pass 
up  Fourteenth  Street  on  the  way  to  Columbian,  Carver  and 
Mount  Pleasant  Hospitals.  Hospitals;  everywhere  new  hos 
pitals.  .  .  .  Nine-tenths  of  the  soldiers,  at  least,  are  native- 
born,  and  all  so  young.  Fifteen  to  twenty-one,  not  many 
but  most  of  them.  And  the  Southerners  seem  to  be  even 
younger  or  to  have,  in  proportion,  more  very  young 
boys.  .  .  . 

To  emanate  ordinary  cheer,  to  radiate  physical  mag 
netism,  to  have  and  to  preserve  poise  and  aplomb  and  pres 
ence,  was,  Walt  found,  the  principal  prescription.  .  .  .  One 
must  be  a  great  lover,  one  must  be  a  strong,  unswervable 
believer — in  what?  In  God?  No  doubt.  In  men?  Of 
course.  In  life?  Yes,  in  life.  In  death.  In  death,  too. 
.  .  .  Not  nursing  nor  medicines  nor  delicacies  nor  gifts  of 
money  nor  anything  else  did  so  much  good  as  the  putting- 
forth  of  a  sense  of  health  and  a  sense  of  love,  compassionate 
and  impassioned,  strengthening  and  ardent,  always  sincere. 
...  He  was  himself  at  this  time  blessed  with  perfect  health ; 
exercise  made  him  robust  and  the  companionship  of  friends 
made  him  happy.  Before  starting  on  one  of  his  morning 
or  afternoon  or  evening  tours  (they  were  likely  to  last  four 


324  THE   ANSWERER 

or  five  hours  apiece,  and  sometimes  longer)  Walt  soon  grew 
careful  to  start  well-rested.  Well-rested,  bathed,  cleanly 
clad  in  fresh,  sweet-smelling  clothes;  cheerful  after  a  good 
meal;  inspired  with  a  feeling  of  something  not  material, 
something  impalpable,  something  quite  resistless  ...  to 
give  .  .  . 

ii 

"  You  haven't  told  me  your  name,  Son." 

"  Hippolyte.    Hippolyte  Antoine." 

Hippolyte  Antoine  .  .  .  Hippolyte.  .  .  . 

"You're  pretty  badly  hurt,  but  doing  well,  Hippolyte. 
You  look  cheerful,  look  like  getting  well!  " 

"  I  can't  get  well.  Doctor  says  he  can  make  me  com 
fortable,  though.  So  ...  I  reckon  I'm  all  right." 

Gunshot  wounds  in  the  abdomen.  Delayed,  transferred 
case  from  Fredericksburg.  Hippolyte  .  .  .  Hippolyte  An 
toine! 

The  clear  February  sunlight  streamed  in  the  windows; 
the  ward  was  almost  a  solarium;  and  in  the  midst  of  this 
pale,  ethereal  brightness  lay  a  curious  black  spot.  Every 
nerve  in  Walt's  body  carried  directive  messages  from  and 
to  the  brain,  like  a  tangle  of  strung  telegraph  wires  crowded 
with  hurrying  orders  and  counter-orders  on  the  eve  of  battle. 
He  said  quietly: 

"  Isn't  there  something  I  can  give  you,  Hippolyte — some 
thing  I  can  get  for  you,  do  for  you?  " 

"  Yes,  please.  If  you'd  write  a  short  letter  to  my  sister, 
Floride,  in  New  Orleans." 

It  had  come.  The  black  spot  expanded  suddenly.  Then 
it  vanished,  leaving  a  curious  ringing  noise  in  the  ears; 


THE   ANSWERER  325 

and  all  about  lay  the  clear  February  sunlight  and  within 
hand's  reach  lay  a  twenty-seven-year-old,  peacefully  dying. 

A  supreme  effort. 

"All  right,  Hippolyte.     I'm  ready." 

"  '  Dear  Floride,'  "  dictated  the  brother,  "  '  a  visitor  to 
tMs  hospital  is  writing  for  me.  I  am  in  Armory  Square 
Hospital,  Washington,  and  very  comfortable — feel  drowsy 
just  now  and  unable  to  write  much.  Am  well-used  here 
and  there  is  nothing  to  worry  about.  I '  " — a  slight  hesita 
tion;  then  the  voice  went  evenly  on — " { shall  soon  be  all 
right.  I  wanted  you  to  know,  and  I  hope  you  are  all  right, 
too.  Have  heard  some  black  stories  about  things  in  New 
Orleans  since  its  capture  last  year;  not  hearing  from  you, 
have  been  often  anxious  but  have  trusted  you  were  all  the 
while  safe  and  well  and  fairly  provided  for.  Many  Yanks 
I  have  met  were  good-hearted  people,  though  having  dif 
ferent  manners;  a  little  hard  to  get  used  to  them  and  know 
them.  If  you  get  this  letter  you  might  try  writing  me.  The 
Virginia  Randolphs  can  perhaps  help,  my  friend  Eustis  Ran 
dolph's  family,  if  you  need  anything.  I  am,  with  much 
love, 

" '  Your  brother, 


The  pencil  took  a  moment  longer  to  catch  up,  at  the 
close. 

"All  right,  Hippolyte." 

"  Mme.  Floride  Dumouriez — D-u-m-o-u-r-i-e-z,  Maison 
Dumouriez,  Royal  Street,  New  Orleans." 

WaU  repeated  the  address.     He  seemed  to  himself  to 


326  THE   ANSWERER 

whisper  it,  but  the  young  man  beside  him,  soothed  by 
morphia,  caught  or  thought  he  caught  the  repetition  satis 
factorily.  He  said,  "  That's  .  .  .  correct "  ;  the  lids 
dropped  gently  over  his  eyes,  and  remained  there,  as  if 
curtaining  the  placid  flow  of  his  thoughts.  .  .  . 

With  the  still  unfolded  letter  in  his  hand,  Walt  sat  and 
gave  no  outward  evidence  of  a  frightful  struggle  within  him. 
Should  he  add  a  few  words  on  this  letter  which  might  be 
read  by  this  boy's  sister?  Oh,  Floride!  ...  oh,  how  piti 
ful!  ...  he  remembered  her  own  wrung  words  of  anguished 
acceptiveness : 

"  II  faut  .  .  .  il  faut  .  .  .,  souffrir." 

The  surprising,  deep  vibrancy  of  her  voice  in  pronounc 
ing  the  word  "  suffer."  One  had  to  suffer.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  my  turn  to  suffer,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  Ah! 
let  me  suffer;  let  me  not  throw  off  any  of  it  on  her. 

He  folded  the  letter;  moistened  the  flap  of  the  envelope; 
sealed.  His  glance,  as  he  rose  to  go,  fell  for  one  last  in 
stant  on  that  only  living  relative  of  Floride  when  he  had 
known  her — how  many  years  ago?  Fifteen.  And  she  had 
been  lonely,  then.  Fifteen  years.  Now  she  loses  this  boy. 
But  perhaps  she  has  lost  the  capacity  any  longer  to  suffer. 
.  .  .  Floride! 

12 

The  young  brother  of  Floride  Dumouriez,  after  lingering 
under  heavy  dosage  of  morphia  for  three  days,  died  with 
out  ever  again  regaining  the  lucid  clearness  of  mind  which 
might  have  permitted  him  to  answer  the  questions  Walt 
yearned  to  ask  him.  Yearned  to  ask,  yet  dreaded  to  ask; 


THE   ANSWERER  327 

would  certainly  have  asked  though  assured  that  the  answers 
could  yield  him  nothing.  It  is  not  certain,  thought  Walt, 
I  should  feel  anything,  no  matter  what  he  could  tell  me. 
.  .  .  The  strong  river  of  feeling  scours  continually  new 
channels;  deserts  the  old  ones  and  never  returns  to  them; 
and  now  all  the  rush  of  my  love  spreads  itself  out  over 
the  wide  plain  of  these  thousands  who  are  hurt  and  dying. 
In  its  tiniest  ripple,  it  would  creep  out  and  reach  them 
all.  .  ,  . 

For  better,  for  worse  (though  who  shall  pronounce  what 
is  better  and  what  is  worse?)  I  am  not  as  other  men  and 
women.  Something  there  is  in  me  which  prevents  a  final 
concentration  of  feeling.  I  guess  the  true  channel  was  ob 
structed,  fatally  snagged;  I  guess  that  could  I  at  twenty- 
one  have  had  the  love  of  Esther  Terry,  all  would  have 
been  different.  Denied  a  sufficient  outlet,  the  river  in 
me  has  traveled  subterraneously  jetting  up  in  places  far 
apart  and  expending  itself  on  objects  great  and  little.  It 
has  watered  the  roots  of  things,  it  has  even  tried  to  moisten 
every  inch  of  a  continent  and  manifest  itself  to  every  in 
habitant  of  These  States;  it  has  grown  leaves  of  grass. 

But  of  the  effect  on  individual  lives  I  am  not  so  sure. 
To  whom  can  I  point  and  say:  He  owes  me  something? 
Or:  She  owes  me  something?  Look  back  to  those  early 
Long  Island  days  and  ask  if  the  boy  Joel  Skidmore  owed 
me  anything  or  the  boy  Selah  Mulford.  What  had  I  to 
do  with  Joel  compared  with  his  Jenny,  or  with  Selah  com 
pared  with  his  Sarah?  I  guess  it  is  too  little  for  any  com 
parative  reckoning — a  spark  of  feeling,  not  anything  beyond 
the  spark.  I  served  them  no  more  than  the  chance  words, 


328  THE   ANSWERER 

or  maybe  the  preordained  words,  of  Herman  Melville  and 
Margaret  Fuller  served  me.  Poor  Joel,  killed  in  the  Mex 
ican  War!  and  poor  Selah,  dead  at  first  Bull  Run!  Poor? 
A  foolish,  a  wicked  word;  they  were  not  poor;  it  is  I  who 
have  been  secretly  poor.  To  be  poor  is  to  have  riches 
and  to  be  denied  the  squandering  of  them,  the  lavishing 
forth  of  them  on  a  supremely-loved  other  person,  to  have  to 
fling  them  chancily  all  about,  seed  wasted  on  stony  acres. 
.  .  .  Melville,  whom  I  heard  utter  the  bitterness  of  one 
with  the  cup  of  frustration  pressed  to  his  lips,  has  lived 
and  lives  yet  to  enjoy  satisfactions  rich  and  deep.  These 
satisfactions,  or  ones  yet  greater,  Margaret  Fuller  also 
knew,  she  and  her  young  lover-husband,  in  death  not  parted. 
How  well  I  remember  her  moving  letter  to  her  brother 
Eugene,  which  I  read  in  New  Orleans!  How,  oh,  how 
much  I  would  give  to  have  known  Margaret  then  and 
thereafter!  To  have  been  with  her  in  the  Roman  hospi 
tals,  to  have  observed  her  in  the  rustic  village  of  Rieti  with 
the  child  in  her  arms,  to  have  seen  her,  if  only  from  the 
bleak  shore,  when  she  met  death  in  that  shipwreck  off 
Long  Island  .  .  .  my  own  Paumanok,  sounding  sea  and 
white  sands  and  mutable  sky.  "  The  life  of  thought  .  .  . 
and  the  life  of  action." 

Well,  I  have  exchanged  the  life  of  thought  for  the  life 
of  action,  have  I  not?  Or  perhaps  it  is  that  I  now  lead 
parallel  lives.  But  if  I  had  to  choose,  knowing  what  I 
know  now,  I  would  be  the  wound-dresser  at  the  sacrifice 
of  being  the  poet.  The  only  reality,  to  such  souls  as  Mar 
garet  Fuller  and  myself  and  certain  others,  is  in  what  we 
feel.  That  which  excites  our  feeling  is  real— -or  rather, 


THE   ANSWERER  329 

the  feeling  is  real  and  therefore  the  thing  which  causes  it. 
And  so  I  say:  No  reality  approaches  this  ministration  to 
the  sick  and  dying.  No  reality  except  one  ...  long  ago 
.  .  .  lost. 

Lost?  No!  No!  I  clutch  it  with  my  hands,  lash  it 
fast  with  my  heartstrings;  have  never  lost,  can  never  .  .  . 
lose  or  loose  it.  Esther!  You  were  some  part  of  me; 
flesh  and  blood  and  spirit;  a  caress  that  was  also  a  brand 
ing;  a  kiss  that  was  also  a  sword;  an  embrace  ...  I  feel 
yet;  a  look  which,  like  the  lilac,  flowers  forever. 

13 

Dear  madam,  Walt  began  on  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper,  after 
spoiling  his  first  trial.  No  doubt  you  and  Peter's  friends 
have  heard  the  sad  fact  of  his  death  in  hospital  here,  through 
his  uncle,  or  the  lady  from  Cincinnati,  who  took  his  things. 
(I  have  not  seen  them,  only  heard  of  them  visiting  Peter.) 
I  will  write  you  a  jew  lines — as  a  casual  friend  that  sat  by 
his  death-bed.  Your  son,  Corporal  Peter  A.  Jackson,  was 
wounded  at  Chancellor sville  May  1,  1863 — the  wound  was 
in  the  left  knee,  pretty  bad.  He  was  sent  up  to  Washington, 
was  received  in  ward  C,  Armory-square  hospital,  May  8th — 
the  wound  became  worse,  and  on  the  13th  of  May  the  leg 
was  amputated  a  little  above  the  knee — the  operation  was 
performed  by  Dr.  Bliss,  one  of  the  best  surgeons  in  the  army 
— he  did  the  whole  operation  himself — there  was  a  good 
deal  of  bad  matter  gather'd — the  bullet  was  found  in  the 
knee.  For  a  couple  of  weeks  afterwards  Peter  was  doing 
pretty  well.  I  visited  and  sat  by  him  frequently,  as  he  was 
fond  of  having  me.  The  last  ten  or  twelve  days  of  May  I 


330  THE   ANSWERER 

saw  that  his  case  was  critical.  He  previously  had  somd 
fever,  with  cold  spells.  The  last  week  in  May  he  was  much 
of  the  time  flighty — but  always  mild  and  gentle.  He  died 
first  of  June.  The  actual  cause  of  death  was  pyemia  (the 
absorption  of  the  matter  in  the  system  instead  of  its  dis 
charge).  Peter,  as  far  as  I  saw,  had  everything  requisite  in 
surgical  treatment,  nursing,  etc.  He  had  watches  much  of 
the  time.  He  was  so  good  and  well-behaved  and  affection 
ate,  I  myself  liked  him  very  much.  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
coming  in  afternoons  and  sitting  by  him,  and  soothing  him, 
and  he  liked  to  have  me — liked  to  put  his  arm  out  and  lay 
his  hand  on  my  knee — would  keep  it  so  a  long  while.  To 
ward  the  last  he  was  more  restless  and  flighty  at  night — 
often  fancied  himself  with  his  regiment — by  his  talk  some 
times  seem'd  as  if  his  feelings  were  hurt  by  being  blamed 
by  his  officers  for  something  he  was  entirely  innocent  of — 
said,  "  I  never  in  my  life  was  thought  capable  of  such  a\ 
thing,  and  never  was."  At  other  times  he  would  fancy  him 
self  talking  as  it  seem'd  to  children  or  such  like,  his  rda-' 
fives  I  suppose,  and  giving  them  good  advice;  would  talk 
to  them  a  long  while.,  All  the  time  he  was  out  of  his  head 
not  one  single  bad  word  or  idea  escaped  him.  It  was  re- 
mark'd  that  many  a  man's  conversation  in  his  senses  was 
not  half  as  good  as  Peter's  delirium.  He  seem'd  quite  will 
ing  to  die — he  had  become  very  weak  and  had  suffer'd  a  good 
deal,  and  was  perfectly  resign'd,  poor  boy.  I  do  not  know 
his  past  life,  but  I  feel  as  if  it  must  have  been  good.  At 
any  rate  what  I  saw  of  him  here,  under  the  most  trying  cir 
cumstances,  with  a  painful  wound,  and  among  strangers,  I 
can  say  that  he  behaved  so  brave,  so  composed,  and  so  sweet 


THE   ANSWERER  331 

and  affectionate,  it  could  not  be  surpass'd.  And  now  like 
many  other  noble  and  good  men,  after  serving  his  country  as1 
a  soldier,  he  has  yielded  up  his  young  life  at  the  very  outset: 
in  her  service.  Such  things  are  gloomy — yet  there  is  a  text, 
"  God  doeth  all  things  well " — the  meaning  of  which,  after 
due  time,  appears  to  the  soul. 

I  thought  perhaps  a  few  words,  though  from  a  stranger, 
about  your  son,  from  one  who  was  with  him  at  the  last,  might 
be  worth  while — for  I  loved  the  young  man,  though  I  but 
saw  him  immediately  to  lose  him.  I  am  merely  a  friend 
visiting  the  hospitals  occasionally  to  cheer  the  wounded  and 
sick.  W.  W. 

On  his  way  to  mail  this  letter  Walt  exchanged,  as  was 
becoming  their  habit,  cordial  bows  with  a  man  dressed  in 
black  (somewhat  rusty  and  dusty  black)  who  rode  an  easy 
going  gray  horse  and  was  escorted  by  cavalrymen  in  yellow- 
striped  tunics.  The  man's  face,  of  a  dark  brown,  had  lines 
deeply  cut  and  the  eyes,  though  the  expression  was  latent 
only,  seemed  to  Walt  always  to  hold  a  tragical  sadness.  In 
subtlety,  in  indirectness,  in  powerful  reticence  and  reticent 
power,  the  face  of  Abraham  Lincoln  surpassed  any  coun 
tenance  Walt  had  ever  seen — and  I  have  studied  faces  if  I 
have  studied  anything,  he  reflected.  None  of  the  portraits  of 
him  has  caught  the  underlying  character  of  these  lineaments. 
.  Can  I  read  them?  I  would  give  all  I  have  to  read 
them  .  .  .  and  some  day,  God  willing,  I  shall.  .  .  . 

14 

The  splendor  of  that  May  of  '63,  bringing  him  to  four- 
and-f orty  amid  a  spread  of  human  havoc  that  began  to  seem 


332  THE   ANSWERER 

perpetual,  had  pressed  so  hard  upon  Walt  as  to  cause  him, 
for  the  first  time  in  years,  definite  physical  distress  of  a 
type  more  than  transitory.  His  friends — O'Connor,  Bur 
roughs,  Hay:  the  two  Johns  and  the  one  William — were 
led  to  utter  their  several  remonstrances.  It  was  this  inces 
sant  ministry  to  the  wounded  and  dying,  of  course;  and  if 
Walt  were  not  more  reasonable  he  would  suffer  an  ultimate 
breakdown. 

"  Especially,"  O'Connor  harangued  him,  "  you  mustn't 
help  in  dressing  these  bad,  these  gangrened  hurts!  Will  you 
please  bear  in  mind,  Walt,  you  are  doing  what  the  physi 
cians  and  nurses  cannot  do?  and  the  only  result  of  doing 
their  work  will  be  a  disability  preventing  you  from  doing 
your  own?  " 

"  '  All  things  had  to  be  done  by  Csesar,'  "  murmured  Hay. 
"  Who  do  you  think  you  are,  Walt,  anyway?  Oh,  I  know!  " 
He  quoted  Walt's  own  line:  "  I  am  he  bringing  help  for  the 
sick  as  they  pant  on  their  backs" 

Said  Burroughs:  "  To  think,  Walt,  that  you  wrote  that 
over  eight  years  ago!  " 

"  Yes,"  added  O'Connor,  "  and  he  also  wrote,  over  eight 
years  ago,  these  lines  immediately  preceding: 


To  any  one  dying — thither  I  speed,  and  twist  the  knob  of  the 

door; 

Turn  the  bed-clothes  toivard  the  foot  of  the  bed; 
Let  the  physician  and  the  priest  go  home. 

I  seize  the  descending  man,  and  raise  him  with  resistless  will. 

O  despair er,  here  is  my  neck; 

By  God!  you  shall  not  go  down!    Hang  your  whole  weight 
upon  me. 


THE   ANSWERER  333 

/  dilate  you  with  tremendous  breath — I  buoy  you  up  - 
Every  room  of  the  house  do  I  fill  with  an  arm'd  force 
Lovers  of  me,  bafflers  of  graves." 

Into  the  recitation  O'Connor  put  all  the  surprising  natural 
mimetic  gift  of  his  voice  and  the  resistless  ardor  of  his  tem 
perament.  At  the  close,  he  broke  down;  tears  streamed 
from  his  fine  eyes  and  he  said: 

"  Little  Philip  ...  my  little  son  .  .  ." 

15 

Fifth  Month  had  passed;  Walt  was  now  forty-four.  Sixth 
Month  was  closing  and  the  last  of  spring's  lilacs  had  per 
ished,  the  roses,  white  «and  dark-stained  red  were  blossom 
ing,  when  the  poet  and  the  President,  through  the  ingenuity 
of  young  Hay,  had  their  first  meeting.  Their  first  meeting; 
let  it  be  said,  rather,  the  first  handclasp  and  exchange  of 
words  face  to  face. 

The  young  secretary  noiselessly  closed  the  double  doors 
behind  them  at  the  White  House,  taking  himself  from  the 
room  and  barring  their  solitude  from  intrusion.  Mr.  Lin 
coln,  who  had  been  sitting  at  a  table  with  a  finger  pressing 
upon  a  map,  unjointed  himself  with  alertness  and  advanced 
toward  the  broader-shouldered,  clear-faced,  equally-bearded 
man  whom  Hay  had  just  ushered  in.  The  President  ex 
tended  his  hand;  Walt  took  it,  and  they  gripped  each  other 
heartily.  Mr.  Lincoln  said: 

"  First  time  I  had  a  good  look  at  you,  Mr.  Whitman,  I 
said  to  the  person  I  was  talking  with:  '  Well,  he  looks  like 
a  man.'  " 

This  in  a  voice  of  quiet  heartiness  with  a  special  timbre. 


334  THE   ANSWERER 

Walt  thought:  His  raciness,  tang,  is  in  the  voice,  after  all, 
like  the  juice  of  a  good  apple;  'tisn't  in  any  accent  or  pecu 
liar  words. 

"  My  first  sight  of  you,  Mr.  President,  was  when  you 
came  to  New  York  in  February,  '61;  must  have  been  about 
the  1 8th  or  igth.  You  got  out  of  a  barouche,  paused  on  the 
sidewalk  and  looked  upward  at  the  fagade  of  the  Astor 
House,  unkinked  your  arms  and  legs  with  a  relieving  stretch 
and  then  looked  out,  slowly  and  good-humoredly  over  that 
vast,  silent  crowd  of  people.  I'll  never  forget  that.  I  re 
member,  as  a  small  child,  seeing  Lafayette  in  that  neighbor 
hood  in  1825.  I  had  also  seen  New  York  welcome  Andrew 
Jackson,  Clay,  Webster,  Kossuth  of  Hungary,  the  Prince 
of  Wales — a  dozen  or  more  celebres — and  each  of  them  with 
a  noise  like  Niagara.  But  this!  You  and  those  thousands, 
eyeing  each  other  with  an  unconcealed  curiosity — in  silence, 
in  a  blend  of  excitement  and  doubt.  I  wondered  how  you 
must  feel;  you  seemed  at  ease;  yet  I  am  sure,  for  a  few 
seconds,  the  thousands  held  their  breath.  It  lasted  only  a 
minute  and  then  the  comedy,  almost  farce  of  it,  mixed  with 
an  indescribable  feeling  of  drama,  of  verging  tragedy,  passed. 
You  walked  with  moderate  pace  up  the  steps,  passed  under 
the  portico,  entered  the  hotel." 

"  Yes,"  responded  Abraham  Lincoln,  "  they  suspended 
judgment  on  me,  as  Tim  Modders  did  on  his  newly-acquired 
mule.  You  have  more  spread  than  I,  Mr.  Whitman;  we'll 
see  who's  tallest."  They  measured,  then,  standing  back  to 
back,  a  full-length  mirror  against  the  wall  giving  the  ver 
dict  to  the  tail  of  Mr.  Lincoln's  eye. 

"I  overtop  you  by  close  on  three  inches.    Now,  that's 


THE   ANSWERER  335 

very  satisfactory.  Hay  tells  me  you  have  some  Holland 
blood,  which  runs  to  breadth.  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you 
that  you  are  no  stranger  to  me.  When  your  book  first  came 
out,  when  Leaves  of  Grass  appeared  in  '55,  my  law  partner 
in  Springfield,  Herndon,  got  hold  of  a  copy  and  left  it  lying 
on  the  office  table.  Rankin  and  the  other  boys  in  the  office 
had  been  reading  it  some  and  one  day  I  heard  them  discuss 
ing  the  poems.  I  guess  likely  they  thought  I  didn't  hear 
them,  or  wasn't  paying  attention.  Well,  their  talk  would 
have  amused  you.  They  did  or  they  did  not  allow  your 
stuff  to  be  poetry,  to  begin  with,  and  they  didn't  allow  each 
other's  views  at  all,  to  end  with.  Some  criticized  particular 
lines;  from  that  they  fell  to  finding  fault  with  each  other's 
literary  taste  in  general  and  totally  rejecting  each  other's 
moral  character.  To  hear  them,  after  about  half  an  hour, 
you'd  have  been  forced  to  the  conclusion  the  world  must 
stop  until  their  differences  were  somehow  composed.  .  .  . 
But  it  was  they  who  stopped,  finally,  and  not  this  planet  in 
its  revolutions.  One  or  two  went  out  on  errands  and  the 
others  fell  to  work.  I  thought  this  a  good  opportunity  to 
look  into  the  source  of  so  much  wrangling;  we  hadn't  had  so 
much  disagreement  in  that  office  in  my  memory;  I  was  anx 
ious  to  judge  for  myself  whether  you  were  as  profound  as 
Shakespeare  or  as  outspoken  as  the  Bible  or  as  funny  as 
Artemus  Ward." 

"  Were  you  terribly  disappointed,  Mr.  President?  " 
"No,  I  wasn't.     You  were  nearer  Shakespeare,  to  my 
mind,  than  Mr.  Emerson  was  arriving  and  your  outspoken 
ness  didn't  bother  me  very  much  more  than  parts  of  the 
Song  of  Solomon.    I  missed  a  kinship  to  Artemus  Ward  but 


336  THE   ANSWERER 

didn't  feel  uncomfortable  over  it;  if  all  men  are  brothers, 
what's  the  use  lamenting  the  absence  of  the  family  harelip 
in  second  cousins?  After  I'd  browsed  in  your  book  some 
time  I  turned  back  to  the  beginning  and  commenced  read 
ing  aloud;  I  believe  I  can  even  now  recall  the  opening  lines: 

/  celebrate  myself, 

And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume, 

For  every  atom  belonging  to  me  as  good  belongs  to  you. 

Yes,  those  were  the  words;  but  they  needed  all  that  followed 
to  make  them  plain.  The  boys  seemed  surprised  when  I 
commenced  reading  aloud;  I  suppose  because  they  were 
used  to  hearing  me  read  out  only  newspaper  extracts,  gen 
erally  political  in  character.  Herndon  and  Bateman,  who 
had  taken  part  in  the  argumentation  over  the  book  but  had 
then  gone  back  to  their  offices,  came  in  and  listened.  Sev 
eral  spoke  up  at  the  close  to  the  effect  that,  as  I  read  it, 'the 
book  seemed  to  them  much  more  like  poetry — different  from 
the  usual  thing  but  decidedly  alive  and  here  and  there,  at 
least,  quite  beautiful." 

"  Tell  me  frankly,  Mr.  President,  your  own  feeling  as 
expressed  at  the  time — if  you  will." 

"Almost  unqualifiedly  favorable;  I  thought  a  few  of  the 
words  and  phrases  doubtful,  not  because  there  should  be 
any  objection  to  calling  a  spade  a  spade  but  because  it  is 
sometimes  more  forceful,  as  emphasizing  its  use,  to  call  the 
spade  an  implement.  It  may  happily  chance,  now  and  again, 
that  the  truest  and  therefore  the  most  poetic  expression  of 
a  thought  will  also  be  an  expression  less  likely  to  offend  the 
literal-minded.  But  I  believe  you  made  some  changes  after 
ward?  " 


THE   ANSWERER  337 

"  A  few,  but  only  for  the  reason  you  speak  of.  Sweeping 
changes  seemed  to  me  to  involve  a  denial,  a  recantation,  fun 
damentally  dishonest.  When  Emerson  thrashed  it  out  with 
me,  though  I  couldn't  answer  him,  I  felt  I  could  retract 
nothing;  for  all  that,  I  continue  to  make  alterations  and 
shall  keep  on  making  them,  doubtless,  as  long  as  I  live — ad 
ditions,  too,  as  well  as  excisions." 

"  You  change  your  mind ;  well,  so  do  I,  and  I  don't  think 
much  of  the  man  who  isn't  wiser  to-day  than  he  was  yester 
day.  To  finish  the  tale  of  our  first  encounter:  After  I  had 
stopped  reading  we  had  another  discussion  in  the  Spring 
field  office — a  little  more  temperate,  I  think.  The  others 
asked  me  what  I  found  in  you,  and  my  answer  was  that, 
first  off,  what  I  didn't  find  in  you  mattered.  I  didn't  find 
any  cheap,  base  thoughts;  I  didn't  find  somebody  else's 
thoughts  in  hand-me-down  phrases.  When  I  considered 
what  I  did  find,  I  had  to  report:  Manliness,  frankness,  toler 
ance  and  the  strong,  natural  impulses  of  youth  and  man 
hood;  all  these  I  liked.  I  liked  not  less  the  mingling  of  ab 
stract  ideas  and  natural  objects,  for  a  man  ought  to  be  able 
to  make  his  mind  and  his  senses  work  together  with  the 
aptitude  of  his  two  hands.  You  took  your  comparisons 
from  the  fields  and  sky  and  the  faces  of  men  and  women 
and  from  our  common  body;  this  pleased  me  and  wonder 
fully  freshened  me  by  making  those  usual  sights  mean  more 
than  they  had  before.  I  thought  also  you  found,  oftener 
than  not,  words  that  were  sponge-like,  absorbing  the  rich 
sap  of  your  feeling  and  allowing  it  readily  to  be  squeezed, 
out  again." 

f"  My  book  has  had  a  reader!  " 


338  THE   ANSWERER 

"  Herndon's  copy  narrowly  escaped  perishing  half-read. 
I  took  it  home  that  night.  .  .  .  When,  in  the  morning,  I 
laid  it  down  on  Bateman's  table,  it  was  impossible  to  for 
bear  telling  him  I  had  barely  saved  it  from  being  purified  in 
fire  by  the  women." 

The  President  smiled,  in  the  way  he  had,  sometimes,  of 
smiling  without  seeming  to ;  a  whimsical  gleam  was  advanced 
for  a  moment  to  the  front  of  the  eyes  under  the  deep  pro 
scenium  arch  of  the  forehead;  for  a  trifle  high  comedy  held 
the  stage  customarily  given  to  a  half-disclosed  drama  of  re 
flective  sadness.  The  ill-nourished  black  hair  which,  to 
please  a  capricious  little  girl,  he  had  allowed  to  mutilate  a 
face  of  tenderly-graven  dignity  and  beauty,  left  to  inference 
whether  in  such  flashes  the  plowed  cheeks  turned  new  fur 
rows  or  remained  soberly  inflexible.  But  Walt's  own  eyes 
regarded  without  disfavor  the  poorly-fitting  drapery  of 
whisker.  .  .  .  He  said: 

"  I  have  lately  had  one  or  two  letters  from  women  who 
grasped  essential  meanings;  realized  no  offense  was  meant, 
and  took  none." 

"  Such  women  there  will  increasingly  be.  But  I  meant, 
Mr.  Whitman,  to  wind  up  only  by  adding  that  at  my  re 
quest  Herndon  left  your  book  on  the  office  table  and  there 
after,  time  and  again,  as  I  was  entering  or  about  to  leave,  my 
eye  falling  on  the  volume  I  would  pick  it  up  and  find  my 
self  soon  caught  in  the  firm  clutch  of  your  poems  .  .  .  they 
and  my  mood  would  interweave  until  I  would  have  been 
hard  put  to  it  to  tell  what  was  yours,  what  mine,  believ- 
ingly,  on  the  subjects  we  dwelt  on.  It  always  ended  with 
my  reading  some  passage  aloud;  and  though  I  seldom  found 


THE   ANSWERER  339 

any  of  the  others  to  agree  with  me,  yet  they  liked  you  more 
and  more,  I  think.  Now  I  have  talked  enough  about  my 
self." 

"  Yourself!  " 

"Well,  ourself,  then!  I  want  particularly  to  hear  about 
you  and  your  visits  to  the  wounded  men." 

A  gentle  rap  was  followed  immediately  by  the  opening  of 
the  folding  doors.  John  Hay  stood  framed  between  them. 
His  blond  boy's  face  exhibited  two  spots  of  high  color.  He 
spoke  to  the  President. 

"  Sir,  Meade  is  fighting  Lee  at  Gettysburg." 

Mr.  Lincoln  changed  instantaneously.  He  seized  and 
pressed  Walt's  hand. 

"  You  must  come  again  in  a  day  or  two  and  tell  me.  God 
speed  you!  " 

He  returned  to  the  table  and  the  map.  The  wound- 
dresser,  passing  out,  heard  that  high-pitched  yet  pleasant 
voice  calling: 

"Hay!  Will  you  send  to  Stanton  for  a  detail  of  the 
ground?  The  scale  here  isn't  large  enough." 

16 

Walt  went  forth  from  his  talk  with  Abraham  Lincoln 
in  a  mood  more  exalted  than  he  had  felt  for  months  or  years ; 
there  has  been  nothing  like  it,  he  told  himself,  in  my 
life  since  '55  and  my  book's  borning.  ...  If  I  felt  I  were 
not  to  see  him  again,  a  depression  such  as  I  have  rarely 
known  would  fall  upon  me;  he  is  so  patently  the  man  of  my 
ideal  and  more  even  than  I  have  been  able  to  idealize;  he  is 
a  transcension  of  America,  shapen  for  these  fluxing  hours 


340  THE   ANSWERER 

and  days,  and  we  may  go  for  another  century  patiently  mold 
ing  ourselves  to  his  grand,  large-contoured  character  and 
need  no  more  spacious  model.  .  .  .  Do  I  declare  this  be 
cause  he  was  among  those  first  few  to  read  my  book  and 
embrace  it?  If  that  were  my  vanity,  might  I  be  damned 
to  the  littleness  of  my  puffed-up  contentment.  No,  I  de 
clare  this  because  the  man  face  to  face  and  eye  to  eye,  in 
closest  scrutiny  and  uninterrupted  audience,  signally  con 
firms  the  impression  derived  from  his  public  words  and 
acts. 

What  that  impression  is,  in  anything  like  totality,  I  shall 
not  find  it  easy  to  say  to  myself;  yet  I  must  manage  that 
not  only  but  must  somehow  convey  the  correct  impression 
to  others.  Nor  will  it  be  excused  me,  nor  very  greatly  ex 
tenuated,  if  I  fail.  If  I  am  a  poet,  then  I  am  a  prophet; 
if  I  or  any  other  would  prophesy,  he  must —  What  must 
he? 

Milton  stated  as  his  object:  To  justify  the  ways  of  God 
to  man ;  but  that  was  not  the  rock  on  which  Christ  built  His 
church  that  the  gates  of  hell  should  not  prevail  against. 
Rather  is  it  a  quicksand  in  which  through  repeated  cen 
turies  the  theologians  have  mired  themselves;  on  the  one 
hand  asserting  that  God's  way  remained  a  mystery  forever 
and  on  the  other  constantly  attempting  to  explain  God's 
purposes.  The  object  which  Milton  truly  set  for  himself 
he  actually  misconceived.  He  was,  contrariwise,  attempt 
ing  to  justify  the  ways  of  man  (that  is,  the  mind  of  man)  to 
God,  by  showing  how  loftily  our  mortal  mind  could  conceive 
of  God's  purposes  and  how,  without  understanding  them,  our 
human  mind  could  accept  them,  to  its  own  magnification. 


THE   ANSWERER  341 

.  .  .  Collect,  deploying  thoughts  of  mine;  assemble  and 
order  yourselves  for  the  future  sure  and  powerful  execution 
of  a  formidably  difficult  design!  (My  poor  brain  yet  buzzes 
and  sings  with  the  wealth  and  force  of  my  impression.  How 
recondite,  farreaching  and  delicate  is  that  fresh  impression; 
still  not  the  faintest  traced  line  of  it  can  be  spared.) 

This,  then,  has  been  the  role  of  the  greatest  poets  and 
prophets  (the  two  are  interchangeable;  they  foretell  the  fu 
ture  simply  to  the  extent  they  reveal  the  present  or  rekindle 
the  past):  To  show  the  greatness,  magnitude  of  Man  in 
his  relation  to  the  Universe;  and  this  magnitude  can  be 
shown  in  two  ways  only,  first,  by  the  sweep  of  his  under 
standing,  and  second,  by  the  largeness  of  his  acceptance  of 
that  which  he  cannot  understand.  The  poet-prophet,  or 
prophet-poet,  perpetually,  joyously  confronts  two  tasks. 
The  first  is  the  task  of  chanting  Man's  loftiest  conceptions 
and  the  second  is  the  task  of  chanting  Man's  sublime  ac 
ceptation.  .  .  .  Out  of  the  fusion  of  these  purposes  arises 
his  last  achievement,  the  one  he  can  approach  but  indirectly ; 
namely,  showing  that  in  the  very  act  of  acceptation,  in  the 
very  moment  of  confessing  non-understanding,  Man  most 
truly  understands.  .  .  . 

Is  this  mystical?  but  the  universe  is  mystical  and  I,  Walt 
Whitman,  am  supremely  a  mystic ;  not  less  so  than  the  great 
dead.  For  greatness  or  littleness  are  not  in  the  realm  of 
the  mystic  who  knows  only  the  union  of  the  pure  heart  and 
the  fierce  intention ;  to  conscience  he  allows  a  directive  sway, 
a  firm  hand  on  the  reins  of  his  yoke-fellows,  but  he  knows 
full  well  the  wreck  piled  up  if  conscience  drives  with  whip 
in  hand.  What  heart  and  soul  do  not  wilfully  accomplish, 


342  THE   ANSWERER 

conscience  shall  not  whip  out  of  them;  lest  her  lash  (the 
Three  Furies,  twined)  take  right  of  way  from  the  hearts 
and  souls  of  others  and  drive,  in  a  puritan,  a  fanatical  gal- 
lopade,  straight  to  destruction.  .  .  . 

Where  Milton  and  Dante  architectured  single  poems,  I 
am  building  a  book  with  the  same  poetic-prophetic  inten 
tion.  My  book  is  not  complete  (I  may  never  be  able  to 
complete  it) ;  but  this  I  know,  it  must  pay  tribute  to  Abra 
ham  Lincoln.  By  showing  the  loftiness  of  his  conceptions,  I 
will  show  the  altitude  attainable  by  men  in  their  concep 
tions;  by  showing  the  immensity  of  his  acceptance,  I  will 
show  how  grandly  men  may  accept.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  achieving 
these  or  partially  achieving  these,  I  may  show  that  in  ac 
ceptation  he  somehow  understood  .  .  .  and  is  to  be  under 
stood. 

.  .  .  The  burst  of  music  came  from  the  mounted  band 
heading  a  large  cavalry  detachment ;  bugles,  drums  and  cym 
bals  played  mad  martial  airs.  Sabers  clanked,  the  hoofs  of 
horses  made  an  electric  tramping  on  the  pavement;  young, 
healthy,  strong  men  sat  erectly  with  bright,  impassive  faces 
(their  bodies  rigid  yet  resilient).  Walt  saw  them  and  a 
salvo  within  him  saluted  the  symbol  they  carried. 

Raise  the  mighty  mother  mistress, 
Waving  high  the  delicate  mistress,  over  all  the  starry  mistress, 

(bend  your  heads  all.) 
Raise  the  fang'd  and  warlike  mistress,  stern,  impassive,  weapon'd 

mistress, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

He  hastened  on  to  his  lodgings,  went  without  delay  to 
his  room  and  seated  himself  at  the  table,  snatching  sheets 
of  paper. 


THE   ANSWERER  343 

Come,  my  tan-faced  children, 

Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  zveapons  ready;  .  .  . 
Swift!  to  the  head  of  the  army! — swift!  spring  to  your  places, 

Pioneers!     0  pioneers! 

The  alpha  and  the  omega  of  a  poem  were  here,  with  one  of 
the  intervening  stanzas.  .  .  .  He  worked  steadily  for  three 
hours,  at  the  end  of  which  he  was  not  finished  but  had,  at* 
least,  perfected  this: 

Have  the  elder  races  halted? 
Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied,  over  there  beyond 

the  seasf 
We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden,  and  the  lesson, 

Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

For  so  I  read  the  faces  of  those  young  men,  he  thought. 
.  .  .  The  feet  of  the  young  men.  ...  I  must  refresh  my 
self  and  go  forth  among  the  young  men,  Father  Abraham's 
tan-faced  children.  .  .  . 

17 

Walt  went  through  the  hospital  slowly  that  evening,  sit 
ting  by  a  half-dozen  bedsides  and  talking  mostly  of  the 
memorable  visit  he  had  paid  that  afternoon;  a  little  of  the 
effect  upon  him  of  those  cavalrymen  riding  into  Washing 
ton  out  of  the  sunset,  children  of  the  West  which  was  Amer 
ica.  .  .  .  The  men  listened  gravely  to  his  description  of  Mr. 
Lincoln's  face  and  voice  and  to  each  Walt  told  the  Presi 
dent's  request  to  know  about  them — about  them  as  well  as 
about  their  comrades  unwounded  and  fighting.  Of  the  main 
part  of  the  President's  discourse  Walt  said  nothing.  I  am 
not  a  poet  to  these  boys,  he  had  long  since  instructed  him 
self,  but  simply  a  friend  and  a  helper.  .  .  . 


344  THE   ANSWERER 

In  one  ward  a  Catholic  priest  was  administering  the  rite 
of  extreme  unction  to  a  dying  soldier;  it  was  not  the  first 
time  Walt  had  witnessed  this  scene,  yet  he  found  its  im- 
pressiveness  strengthened  with  each  observation.  .  .  .  Have 
I  made  light  of  ceremonials,  any  place?  he  interrogated  him 
self;  and  though  unable  to  recollect  distinctly  such  a  passage 
he  took  a  resolution  to  make  amends  if  he  should  find  one. 
For  what  is  a  rite  of  any  sort,  Walt,  but  the  demand  for 
utterance?  the  "  outer  and  visible  sign  of  an  inner  and 
spiritual  grace?  "  and  who  shall  say  that  the  virtue  which 
has  once  bodied  itself  forth  in  the  sign  may  not  flow  back 
from  the  sign  into  an  aching  and  empty  spirit? 

A  sound  from  the  bedside  by  which  he  was  sitting  put  a 
stop  to  the  brief  meditation. 

"  What  is  it,  Oscar?  " 

"  Please,  Walt,  read  me  a  bit  from  the  Bible,  a  chapter 
from  the  New  Testament." 

Walt  felt  in  his  pocket. 

"  What  passage  would  you  like,  Oscar?  " 

"  You  ...  choose." 

The  Book  happening  to  open  at  the  close  of  one  of  the 
Gospels,  Walt  read  the  chapters  describing  the  last  hours  of 
Christ  and  the  scenes  attending  the  Crucifixion.  Poor, 
wasted  Oscar  Wilber  then  asked  for  the  succeeding  chapter, 
how  Christ  rose  again.  Walt  read  with  careful  slowness  so 
that  the  much-enfeebled  boy,  listening  with  strained  at 
tention,  might  miss  nothing. 

"  Are  you  pleased  with  that,  Oscar?  " 

"Oh,  yes!  "    He  was  in  tears,  but  repeated,  very  ear- 


THE   ANSWERER  345 

nestly:  "Yes!  Would  you  tell  me:  Do  you  enjoy  reli 
gion?  " 

"  Perhaps  not,  my  dear;  in  the  way  you  mean  .  .  .  and 
yet,  maybe  'tis  the  same  thing." 

"  It  is  my  chief  reliance." 

He  fell  silent;  dabbed  at  his  eyes  a  little,  and  finally 
said: 

"  I  somehow  have  no  fear  of  death." 

"  Why,  Oscar,  don't  you  think  you  will  get  well?  "  Walt 
put  a  special  encouragement  into  his  tone. 

"  I  may,  but  it  is  not  probable." 

Walt  was  silent,  feeling  the  boy  to  be  even  then  the  same 
as  dying.  A  bad,  bad  wound;  fetid;  and  settled  diarrhea. 
.  .  .  Yet  he  behaved  very  manly  and  affectionate. 

Across  the  aisle  the  priest  of  God  dipped  his  thumb  in 
the  oil. 

Suddenly  bending  over  the  dying  boy,  Walt  kissed  him. 
The  thinned  arms  reached  up  and  clasped  him  about  the 
neck,  drew  him  down,  and  the  boy's  lips  returned  the  kiss 
fourfold.  , 


18 

"  That  is  how  they  meet  death,  Mr.  Lincoln,"  'said  Walt, 
as  he  finished  a  simple  narrative  of  things  seen  with  the 
behavior  of  Oscar  Wilber.  "  If  death  ended  all,  they  could 
not  meet  death  better." 

The  President's  distress  had  been  so  sharp  and  so  evident 
that  Walt  had  several  times  desisted,  saying: 


346  THE   ANSWERER 

"  You  have  enough  to  sustain,  Mr.  Lincoln,  without  hear 
ing  these  incidents." 

"  I  am  eager  to  hear  them,"  was  the  unhesitating  answer. 
"  I  have  found,  Mr.  Whitman,  that  knowledge  painfully 
come  by  teaches  me  personally  better  than  any  other.  I 
think  it  is  well  to  know  how  to  die  since  few  of  us  live  lives 
that  cannot  be  redeemed  by  the  manner  of  their  closing." 
Again,  when  Walt  would  have  stopped  the  recital,  he  was 
told:  "  Please  keep  on."  A  third  time  the  President,  con 
trolling  a  sob,  motioned  him  to  continue.  At  Walt's  words: 
"  If  death  ended  all,  they  could  not  meet  death  better,"  Mr. 
Lincoln  took  his  hand,  held  it  a  moment  and  then  let  it  go 
with  the  words:  "  Thank  you.  .  .  ." 

The  pause  was  broken  by  the  repetition,  in  Mr.  Lincoln's 
tenderest  voice,  of  the  words:  "  If  death  ended  all  .  .  ." 
And  after  a  shorter  interval,  the  President  re-commenced 
with: 

"  I  coax  Hay  to  read  to  me  sometimes.  Usually  a  passage 
of  Shakespeare,  or  a  whole  act  or  particular  scenes.  Since 
your  call  the  other  day  and  our  talk,  I  have  had  him  read 
me  once  or  twice  from  your  book.  These  concluding  lines 
of  the  '55  edition  stay  with  me: 


Great  is  life  .  .  .  and  real  and  mystical  .  .  .  wherever  and  who 
ever, 

Great  is  death  .  .  .  Sure  as  life  holds  all  parts  together,  death 
holds  all  parts  together; 

Sure  as  the  stars  return  again  after  they  merge  in  the  light,  death 
is  great  as  life. 


I  believe  that,  Mr.  Whitman;  yes,  I  believe!  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
do  you  put  faith  in  dreams?  " 


THE   ANSWERER  347 

"  One  dream  I  had,  years  ago,  has  lately  explained  itself 
to  me  in  terms  of  America  at  war." 

"  One  dream  I  have  had,  too,  but  recurrently  and  always 
presaging  good  news.  It  has  come  to  mean  to  me  the  an 
nunciation  of  victory.  I  had  it  before  Antietam  and  before 
Murfreesborough  and  before  Gettysburg,  just  terminated. 
Last  night  I  was  visited  with  it  again;  I  greatly  hope  this 
was  no  idle  mirage  of  the  nights  before;  to  look  for  another 
success  so  soon  seems  more  than  we  can  dare.  But  perhaps 
you  will  be  curious  to  know  the  dream  itself.  In  it  I  find 
myself  sailing  on  a  ship  of  strange  build.  The  ship  herself 
I  cannot  describe  for  I  am  never  able  to  make  out  her  lines 
distinctly;  but  I  suppose  an  interior  person  such  as  I  am 
would  be  incapable  of  telling  wherein  the  difference  from 
other  vessels  lay.  But  no  matter;  she  is  always  the  same, 
in  spite  of  her  pronounced  oddity.  And  she  bears  me  with 
great  speed  toward  a  dark  and  undefined  shore.  Now  that 
is  the  whole  of  it;  what  would  you  make  of  the  meaning?  " 

"  Might  not  the  ship  be  a  symbol  of  the  Union?  " 

"No,  I  shouldn't  venture  to  take  so  great  a  conceit  to 
explain  the  business,  Mr.  Whitman.  .  .  .  After  all,  this  is 
a  trifle.  Only  the  coincidence  of  the  dream  with  our  suc 
cesses  interests  me;  makes  me  hope,  since  last  night's  fresh 
experience  of  it —  Gettysburg  has  been  terribly  costly; 
we  have  lost  somewhere  around  23,000  men  out  of  93,000; 
Lee  and  Longstreet  have  had  equal  losses  from  a  total  force 
of  just  under  80,000;  so  the  sacrifice  of  Antietam  has  been 
doubled.  I  pray  to  more  purpose!  If  Meade  will  but  fol 
low  up  Lee  with  boldness,  as  McClellan  ought  to  have  done 
and  did  not.  ,  ,  ." 


348  THE   ANSWERER 

"  The  victory,  I  take  it,  is  incomplete  in  your  judgment?  " 
"  My  judgment  borrows  heavily  from  my  hopes,  Mr. 
Whitman;  too  heavily,  it  may  be.  Gettysburg  is  our  great 
est  victory  so  far ;  but  only  in  the  negative  sense  of  the  dan 
ger  from  which  it  has  freed  us.  Lee's  planned  invasion  of 
the  North  was  this  time  not  aimed  at  Washington  but  at 
industrial  Pennsylvania,  at  our  forge,  our  smithy,  without 
which  we  could  not  equip  or  weapon  our  armies.  The  threat 
has  been  annulled  and  the  menace  removed.  What  I  could 
wish  with  all  my  heart  to  see  is  the  extermination  of  any 
such  menace  in  the  future.  We  ought  not  to  be  content  to 
repel  Lee;  we  ought  to  put  him  out  of  the  fighting;  to  dis 
able  him  effectually  should  be  our  sole  cherished  objective. 
I  have  made  it  clear  to  General  Meade,  I  think,  how  anxious 
a  faith  I  place  in  him  to  do  that ;  he  must  not  let  Lee  recross 
the  Potomac;  he  must  not  let  Lee  get  clean  away!  " 

Walt  had  picked  up  a  book  lying  on  the  table.  The  Presi 
dent,  observing  this,  exchanged  the  insistent  cares  of  the 
hour  for  a  refreshment  of  recollection.  "  That  is  a  volume 
sent  me  a  while  ago  by  James  H.  Hackett.  I  am  sorry  to 
add  that  I  have  not  got  around  to  acknowledging  its  receipt. 
When  I  do  so  I  must  explain  that  for  one  of  my  age  I  have 
seen  very  little  of  the  drama.  Mr.  Hackett,  last  winter,  was 
my  first  sight  of  Falstaff;  I  would  give  something  to  see  him 
again  in  the  role.  To  be  Honest,  there  are  plays  of  Shake 
speare's  I  have  never  read;  certain  ones  I  suppose  I  have 
read  as  frequently  as  any  unprofessional  reader,  among  them 
Lear,  Richard  HI.,  Henry  VIII. ,  Hamlet,  and  espe 
cially  Macbeth.  I  think  Macbeth  wonderful;  nothing 
to  me  quite  equals  it.  No  doubt  it  is  a  defect  in  my  taste, 


THE   ANSWERER  349 

but  in  Hamlet  I  think  the  King's  soliloquy  commencing 
1  O,  my  offense  is  rank/  surpasses  the  favorite  '  To  be  or  not 
to  be.' "  He  quoted,  with  slow,  appreciative  relish. 
" '  There  is  no  shuffling,  there  the  action  lies  in  his  true  na 
ture.'  " 

Any  allusion  to  the  drama  was  enough  to  kindle  Walt;  he 
spoke  with  vivid  memory  and  enthusiasm  of  plays  and  play 
ers,  chiefly  those  who,  fifteen  to  twenty-five  years  earlier, 
had  made  luminous  New  York's  Bowery.  With  an  effort 
Walt  finally  gave  over  a  favorite  topic,  and  said: 

"  Mr.  President,  I  had  it  in  mind  to  ask  you  to-day,  in 
case  you  have  given  it  any  thought  or  would  be  willing  to 
repose  in  me  any  confidence  on  the  subject,  what  your  pres 
ent  feeling  is  regarding  the  policy  to  be  pursued  toward  the 
South  in  the  event  of  a  final  victory  for  the  Union?  Briefly, 
how  would  you  treat  them?  " 

"  Treat  them?  "  was  the  response  in  a  voice  of  warmth 
and  extraordinary  sweetness.  "  Mr.  Whitman,  I  would  treat 
them  as  though  they  had  never  drawn  away." 

The  tears  welled  up  and  Walt  could  not  see  very  plainly; 
there  was  a  blurring  of  everything  and  he  found  he  had  not 
the  use  of  his  voice  at  all.  In  a  manner  he  could  not  have 
explained  (yet  it  seemed  almost  visual)  the  uncouth  and 
gangling  figure  facing  him  took  on  a  character  of  transfigura 
tion.  The  sound  and  gentle  sweetness  of  Abraham  Lincoln 
was  fully  revealed;  could  positively  be  felt  like  the  emana 
tion  of  an  abiding  force  or  vital  principle — which  I  doubt 
not  it  is!  Walt's  heart  cried  out  within  him,  fervently  and 
thankfully.  ...  He  finally  managed: 

"Would  you  permit  me,  Mr.  President,  to  express  that 


350  THE  ANSWERER 

intention — oh,  generous!  noble!  worthy  of  you! — to  some  of 
the  rebel  wounded?  as  a  small  means  of  reassurance,  con 
solation?  with  the  plainly-added  warning  that  the  Executive 
may  influence  but  cannot,  of  course,  control  the  Congress." 

Mr.  Lincoln's  forehead  showed  deep  vertical  lines. 

"  As  person  to  person,  for  the  comfort  of  individuals,  I 
think  you  may  say  it.  I  should  be  loath  to  have  it  miscon 
strued.  An  absolute  and  unqualified  surrender  is  the  in 
dispensable  preliminary  to  treating  with  them  at  all.  .  .  . 
But  were  the  surrender  before  me,  that  would  be  my  policy. 
A  day  will  come  when,  remembering  that  for  which  we  have 
fought,  the  sacredness  of  the  Union,  we  shall  realize  that  no 
Union  can  exist  without  harmony,  and  that  to  secure  and 
perpetuate  harmony  we  must  extinguish  resentments  as  you 
would  stamp  out  the  smolder  of  a  creeping  fire.  May  God 
grant  me  to  see  that  day!  " 

"  Mr.  President,  you  have  great  faith — the  sublimes t 
faith  of  any  of  us!  Beside  yours,  mine  is  a  very  small 
thing.  And  yet  I  have  had,  have  still,  my  rapt  visions  of 
the  future  of  America.  Can  you  throw  into  words  your 
ideas  as  to  the  form  that  future  will  likeliest  take?  " 

"  It  used  to  be  a  subject  of  speculation  with  me,  Mr.  Whit 
man,  but,  alas!  under  the  heavy  weight  of  responsibilities  I 
think  no  more  about  the  future  except  in  terms  of  the  tor 
tured  present.  .  .  .  We  have  freed  the  slaves.  We  did  it 
as  a  military  necessity  and  thus  has  been  accomplished  what 
was  right  to  be  done,  as  I  believe,  but  not  in  that  way.  Un 
der  Providence,  I  acted  as  light  was  given  me;  but  a  gradual 
emancipation  in  a  peaceful  society  seemed  to  me,  and  yet 
seems,  more  merciful  to  the  negro  himself.  With  a  sentiment 


THE   ANSWERER  351 

to  enfranchise  the  black  immediately  I  am  not  in  sympathy; 
far  less  do  I  agree  with  those  who  find  an  innate  equality 
of  black  man  and  white  and  would  not  merely  proclaim  but 
enforce  it.  It  was  once  my  destiny  to  defend  against  a 
political  opponent,  Senator  Douglas,  the  declaration  that '  all 
men  are  created  equal ' ;  but  I  was  at  some  pains  to  specify 
then  and  I  should  specify,  under  like  circumstances  to-day, 
that  in  my  opinion,  while  the  authors  of  that  statement  in 
tended  to  include  all  men,  they  did  not  intend  to  declare  all 
men  equal  in  all  respects.  No  one  pretends  all  white  men  are 
equals  in  color,  size,  intellect  or  moral  or  social  capacities. 
But  the  assertion  that  '  all  men  are  created  equal '  was  fol 
lowed  by  other  words  in  which,  with  tolerable  distinctness, 
it  was  stated  in  what  respects  all  men  were  deemed  equals, 
namely,  equally  endowed  with  '  certain  inalienable  rights, 
among  which  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness.' 
This  our  fathers  said;  this  they  meant.  Their  purpose  was 
to  safeguard  the  future;  for  the  assertion  was  of  no  prac 
tical  use  or  bearing  in  a  struggle  for  separation  from  Great 
Britain.  I  have  only  one  word  of  advice  for  those  who  are 
concerned  lest  the  negro  fail  immediately  to  secure  political 
and  social  equality  with  the  white  man:  Let  them  watch 
closely  for  the  maintenance,  among  both  whites  and  blacks, 
of  the  exact  equality  our  fathers  specified.  Let  them  do 
everything  in  their  power  to  see  that  to  every  man  and 
woman,  now  and  henceforth,  white  or  black,  security  of  life, 
security  of  personal  liberty,  and  a  secure  opportunity  toward 
happy  pursuits  is  assured!  " 

"  Ah !     Years  back,  a  friend  pointed  out  to  me  that  with 
its  defeat  in  the  political  form,  tyranny  would  reassert  itself 


352  THE   ANSWERER 

in  newer,  more  insidious  forms.  He  foresaw  the  possibility 
of  a  vast  system  of  industrial  slavery  from  which  emancipa 
tion  would  be  long  and  difficult,  and  not  possible  by  any  fiat 
like  yours  unshackling  the  negro!  " 

"  Your  friend  saw  clearly,  Mr.  Whitman.  There  is  a 
power  of  money  in  our  country  which  will  bear  all  the 
vigilance,  and  I  think  engage  all  the  strength  in  grapple,  of 
our  equalitarians." 

"  I  am  struck  by  one  thing.     You  do  not  see  the  real 
American  future  in  terms  of  territorial  expansion,  teeming 
wealth,  material  riches  and  prosperity." 
"  God  forbid!  " 

"  I  can  never  express  my  sense  of  how  right  you  are.  .  .  ." 
"  The  future  of  America  is  no  more  predominantly  a  ques 
tion  of  lands,  goods  and  chattels  than  the  future  of  an  in 
dividual.  If  we  permit  the  acquisition  of  territory  or  wealth 
to  enslave  us,  what  can  we  hope  for  beyond  the  fate  of  Car 
thage  or  Rome?  The  health  and  hardihood  of  the  race,  the 
safening  of  life,  the  continual  re-assertion  of  liberty,  the 
study  of  what  constitutes  our  happiness — only  these  make  a 
beckoning  future  on  this  continent  or  any  other  continent. 
And  now  I  must  bid  you  farewell  with  an  injunction  not 
to  be  too  long  in  coming  again." 

"  I  shall  think  of  your  dream  and  hope  it  may  not  fail 
you." 

Walt  was  not  down  the  steps  of  the  White  House  when 
the  telegraph  wires  brought  the  news  that  Vicksburg  had 
fallen  on  Saturday.  He  did  not  hear  of  it,  however,  until 
that  night  when  newspaper  extras  were  shouted  through 
the  streets.  Hearing  it,  on  his  way  to  the  hospitals,  he  felt 


THE   ANSWERER  353 

momentarily  dazed  by  the  immensity  of  this  success  —  no 
battle,  this,  but  a  siege,  a  victorious  campaign.  ...  In  the 
enfolding  darkness  under  the  trees  that  July  evening  there 
rose  up  before  him  the  mirage  of  a  strangely-molded  vessel 
on  the  deck  of  which  stood,  with  sparse,  blown  hair,  a  soli 
tary  voyager.  The  ship  rushed  through  a  cold  and  spray- 
less  ocean,  through  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine  whose 
green  became  one  red.  O,  fearful  Dream!  what  do  you  por 
tend?  and  what  is  the  distant  shore  with  people  all  a-crowd- 
ing?  .  .  .  Here  Captain!  dear  father!  .  .  .  It  is  some  dream 
that  on  the  deck  you've  fallen  cold  and  dead.  .  .  . 


Something  familiar  in  the  boy's  face  attracted  Walt;  some 
thing  arresting;  something  which  slowed  the  beat  of  the 
heart  and  then  allowed  a  double-beat  (t-h-r-o-b  .  .  . 
th-throb!)  in  tardy  compensation. 

"  Hopeless,"  whispered  the  nurse.  "  Not  expected  to  re 
cover  consciousness.  Transferred  case  from  the  field  hos 
pital  near  Culpepper.  We  have  his  father's  name  and  ad 
dress,  if  you  want  to  write." 

"I'll  copy  it  off  before  I  go." 

He  stood  with  fascinated  gaze  looking  down  at  the  youth's 
face  .  .  .  features,  coloring,  so  disturbingly,  so  almost 
shockingly  familiar.  The  eyes  were  closed.  At  length,  with 
gently  retracting  lids  (no  other  slightest  stir  or  movement) 
they  were  opened  and  the  limpid  glance  from  their  gold- 
flecked  irises  struck  full  upon  Walt's. 

Recognition.  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  blue  irises  of  her  eyes  marked  just  so  with 


354  THE   ANSWERER 

brown  and  golden;  saw  the  slight  roundedness  of  her  shoul 
ders  that  yearned  for  pillowing  on  a  firm  young  breast;  saw 
the  smooth  shapeliness  of  her  forearm  made  for  clasping  her 
lover's  bared  throat.  .  .  .  Saw  her  coiled,  saddle-colored 
hair  amid  the  blossoming  lilacs.  Saw  .  .  . 

"  Dear  boy,  has  your  mother — ?  " 

The  whole  ward  was  becoming  dim;  dissolving. 

"  I  never  knew  her."  Not  much  more  than  a  whisper. 
"  I  was  her  firstborn;  she  died  giving  birth  to  me." 

(God,  if  You  would  but  give  me  to  change  places  with 
him!  God,  cannot  it  somehow  be  compassed?  God,  You 
had  a  Son ;  have  mercy  upon  me  who  have  none  .  .  .  whose 
son  this  lad  might  have  been.  O,  dear  God,  at  the  very 
smallest  spare  this  child  of  hers!) 

A  faint  quiver  shook  the  boy's  body;  the  blue  eyes  starred 
with  gold  and  brown  remained  open,  but  the  light  left  them. 

"He  was  going  to  copy  the  father's  name  and  address. 
I've  scribbled  it  all  on  this  slip  of  paper.  Tuck  it  in  his 
pocket.  See?  'David  Sayre,  Jr.,  pvt.,  5ist  N.  Y.  Volun 
teers:  notify  father,  D.  Sayre,  Smithtown,  L.  I.,  N.  Y.'  .  .  . 
I  never  saw  old  Walt  keel  over  like  that  before.  This  work 
is  beginning  to  tell  on  him.  Better  put  some  stuff  on  that 
scratched  place  on  his  hand;  the  case  was  badly  gangrened. 
Did  you  call  the  ambulance?  ...  All  right,  then." 

20 

"  I  observed  at  once,  you  were  not  looking  well.  Would 
it  be  of  any  avail  if  you  were  to  pour  it  all  out  to  me  in 


THE   ANSWERER  355 

confidence?  Now  it  may  just  so  be,  I  can  give  the  relief 
that  comes  from  having  a  sympathetic  listener.  If  it  will 
help,  tell  me,  Mr.  Whitman— Walt!  " 

Mr.  Lincoln's  caller  reached  a  hand  for  the  back  of  a 
chair. 

"  You  had  no  business  standing!     Here.  .  .  ." 

The  gaunt  President,  with  a  kind  of  supple,  wiry  strength 
in  his  awkward  figure  clothed  in  a  rusty,  funereal  black, 
hooked  one  hand  under  Walt's  arm  and  lowered  him  to  his 
seat.  Then,  drawing  up  another  chair,  seating  himself  with 
back  bent  forward  and  large  hands  on  his  unaccommodating 
knees,  Mr.  Lincoln  repeated,  in  a  kind  tone: 

"  Tell  me.  ...  In  your  own  time.  .  .  ." 

For  a  few  moments  the  two  men  sat  looking  directly  at 
each  other,  tears  issuing  from  Walt's  eyes.  The  President's 
own  were  misted. 

"  Mr.  Lincoln  .  .  .  once  there  was  a  woman  who  loved 
me  and  detained  me  for  love  of  me.  It  was  my  lot  to  find 
dying  here  in  Washington  her  young  brother — all  she  had 
in  the  world.  It  was  my  lot  to  write  his  letter  to  her,  for 
him.  .  .  .  There  was  also  and  earlier,  when  I  was  a  youth 
of  twenty-one,  a  woman  I  loved.  Her  I  could  not  have — 
and  yet  I  think  I  had  something  of  her  love.  This  I  know, 
Esther  Terry  had  some  essential  portion  of  me;  you  will 
not  ask  me  to  explain  what  cannot  be  explained  beyond  say 
ing:  I  feel  our  oneness  forever.  That  sacred  feeling  I  have 
kept  .  .  .  and  keep.  The  other  night,  after  a  separation 
of  many  years,  I  looked  again  into  her  eyes ;  and  they  were 
the  eyes  of  her  son,  her  firstborn  for  whom  she  gave  her 


356  THE   ANSWERER 

life;  and  he  was  dying.  .  .  .  Myself  saw  him  go  to  join 
her.  .  .  .  O,  Esther!  Wife,  mother,  gliding  near  with  soft 
feet  .  .  ." 

The  paroxysm  passed;  Abraham  Lincoln  waited  until  it 
had  passed  to  say: 

"  There  was  once  something  in  my  own  life,  known  to  not 
many  and  to  no  one  (I  include  myself  in  the  '  no  one ') 
with  perfect  insight  except,  perhaps,  to  her  .  .  .  and  she, 
too,  is  dead.  At  somewhat  past  your  age  in  that  first  en 
counter,  my  friend,  I  had  to  endure  what  you  endured  and 
tell  me  of;  but  it  all  swooped  down  on  me  at  once — like  a 
great  hawk,  beak  and  talons  both — for  in  the  space  of  three 
days  I  lost  the  promise  of  her  as  my  wife  and  she  died." 

In  Walt  an  easily-aroused  sympathy,  much  magnified 
by  his  great  admiration  of,  love  for  Lincoln,  began  the  hard 
task  of  stemming  his  flooding  grief.  He  was  unable  to  say 
anything  but  the  President  perceived  from  his  eyes  his  com 
plete  attention. 

"  Her  name  was  Ann  Rutledge.  Her  father  kept  a  store 
and  tavern  and  boarded  me.  I  was  twenty-four  or  -five. 
She  was  such  a  mite  of  a  little  woman,  alongside  my  inches ; 
I  guess  there  was  more  than  a  foot's  difference.  I  believe 
she  was  rated  a  beauty  by  many ;  but  her  kindness  was  what 
first  touched  me;  you  would  scarcely  understand,  Friend 
Whitman,  what  a  lonely  and  miserable  existence  I  led  in 
those  days.  The  young  man  whose  homeliness  marks  him 
out  is  likely  to  have  a  nervous  dread  of  women,  especially 
young  women.  I  had.  When  ladies  were  staying  at  my 
boarding  house,  I  victualed  myself  elsewhere.  You  see,  I 
was  without  nice  manners,  wore  distressed  clothes,  and 


THE   ANSWERER  357 

wasn't  used  to  any  comforts,  let  alone  elegancies.  There 
was  something  wonderfully  dainty  about  Mr.  Rutledge's 
daughter,  with  her  coppery-gold  hair.  She  had  blue  eyes, 
too,  and  the  whitest,  prettiest  skin.  Well,  I  remember 
chiefly  how  kind  and  gentle  she  was  to  me,  first  off." 

The  lover  of  Ann  Rutledge  shone  in  the  eyes  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  curiously  dark  for  eyes  of  gray.  Walt  respected 
the  pause  of  silence. 

"  I  couldn't  tell  you  all  of  it,  nor  anybody.  But  she  had 
been  promised  to  a  young  man  who  had  unexpectedly  gone 
back  to  his  home  in  the  East  after  explaining  to  her  that 
lie'd  been  passing  under  another  name  than  was  rightfully 
his.  What  his  account  of  it  was  she  did  not  tell  me  and  I 
never  asked;  but  she  was  convinced  by  it  as  told.  She  ex 
pected  him  back. 

"  When  he  did  not  write  for  some  time  she  thought  noth 
ing  of  it,  but  when  at  length  he  did  write  his  letters  gave 
her  a  good  deal  of  puzzlement  and  anxiety.  Meanwhile  her 
friends,  to  whom  she  had  been  obliged  to  give  the  gist  of 
his  explanation,  were  skeptical  and  kept  talking  to  her.  .  .  . 
She  stoutly  defended  him,  of  course,  but  his  absence  dragged 
itself  out;  the  time  came  when  she  had  nothing  to  adduce 
against  her  friends'  arguments  and  conclusions  but  her  own 
implicit  faith  in  his  Tightness.  That  was  fatally  weakened 
by  his  behavior  in  continuing  to  stay  East  and  affording  no 
satisfactory  or  comprehensible  reasons — in  fact,  failing  after 
a  while  to  write  her  at  all  or  to  answer  her  pitiful  letters. 
So  she  gave  him  up;  and  shortly  afterward  she  met  me. 

"  We  were  not  long  promised  to  marry  when  she  fell  seri 
ously  ill  and  then  demanded  to  see  me  privately.  You  must 


358  THE   ANSWERER 

not  suppose  she  had  failed  in  frankness  toward  me;  I  knew 
all  that  was  essential  for  me  to  know  about  the  other  man; 
I  was  now  to  know  more;  I  was  now  to  understand  that 
he  had  killed  her.  Mr.  Whitman,  she  died  of  grief,  as  much 
as,  or  more  than,  anything  else!  " 

Walt's  heart  went  out  to  the  man  in  whom  this  memory, 
after  thirty  years  and  in  the  midst  of  crushing  outside 
stresses,  kindled  such  fresh  suffering. 

"  She  had  at  last,  after  long  silence,  after  promising  her 
self  to  me,  received  from  him  a  letter  completely  explaining 
all  circumstances.  Briefly  they  were  that  he  had  at  home 
stood  accused  of  a  crime  of  which  he  was  innocent.  A  mis 
taken  impulse  had  led  him  to  assume  another  name  and  go 
West.  A  warning  reached  him  that  he  had  been  traced  un 
der  his  disguise;  but  it  also  appeared  that  developments 
East  were  tending  to  clear  him  of  the  wrongful  charge.  He 
returned,  resumed  his  proper  name,  and  waited  hopefully 
for  the  proof  he  was  innocent ;  but  something  miscarried,  it 
was  not  forthcoming,  and  he  was  tried,  convicted  and  sent 
to  prison.  When  imprisoned,  wishing  to  conceal  this  last 
shock  from  one  who  still  perfectly  believed  in  him,  he  ceased 
to  write.  Then  the  once-expected  tardily  came  to  pass; 
new  evidence  showed  his  innocence  beyond  any  question, 
and  he  was  freed  from  prison  after  serving  just  under  a 
year  of  a  five  years'  sentence.  You  know  how  scanty  was 
the  flow  of  news  in  the  '303  and  how  unlikely  it  was  that  in 
Springfield,  Illinois,  anything  should  be  heard  of  a  minor 
trial  and  its  result  in  Vermont.  On  being  released,  the  ex 
traordinary  circumstances  caused  something  to  be  printed 
about  the  affair,  I  understand,  but  his  joyful  letter  explain- 


THE   ANSWERER  359 

ing  to  her  and  renewing  his  claim  upon  her  was  the  first  in 
telligence  she,  or  any  of  us,  received. 

"  That  was  the  acute  cause  of  her  illness,  and  that  was 
what  she  called  me  in,  alone,  to  listen  to.  I  cannot  describe 
what  I  went  through;  you  will  have  some  idea  from  your 
own  experience.  I  finally  offered  to  release  her  but  this 
seemed  only  to  make  her  suffering  more  extreme.  It  was 
now  plain  to  her  that  though  she  had  once  loved  him,  she 
now  loved  me;  we  equally  loved  her  and  equally  had  an 
honorable  claim.  The  situation  was  beyond  her;  she  was 
near  crazed  with  her  grief  and  remorse.  ...  I  cannot  tell 
you  about  it.  ...  Nothing  was  solved.  ...  In  two  days, 
the  fever  taking  her,  she  died.  .  .  ." 

Lincoln's  back  went  against  the  back  of  his  chair,  his 
head  drooped  forward,  his  large  knotted  hands  gripped  and 
the  fingers  kneaded  the  up  thrust  and  awkward  knees;  after 
a  moment  the  hands  fell  to  his  side  but  the  fingers  continued 
to  close  and  unclose  in  an  irregular,  tautened  fashion  as 
though  the  joints  were  stiffly  rheumatic ;  observing,  one  half- 
expected  him  to  cry  out  with  the  sharp  pain  of  their  flexing. 
But  he  cried  out  not  at  all;  the  only  sound  was  the  sharp 
intake  of  breath  mastering  a  convulsive  sob.  .  .  .  When 
Walt  could  speak,  he  said: 

"  I  had  heard  you  early  had  a  great  grief  in  your  life. 
How  great  and  how  pitiful  ...  out  of  my  fresh  experience 
and  my  old,  God  gives  me  somewhat  to  understand." 

"  To  a  few  good  friends,  I  owe  my  life  to-day,"  Lincoln 
answered.  "  To  Bowline  Greene,  who  bore  me  away  to  a 
secluded  house,  his  own  home,  and  watched  me  night  and 
day.  The  thought  that  the  snows  and  rains  fell  upon  her 


360  THE   ANSWERER 

grave  filled  me  with  indescribable  anguish.  As  long  as  two 
years  afterward,  serving  in  the  Illinois  Legislature,  though  I 
doubtless  seemed  to  others  to  enjoy  life  rapturously,  yet 
when  alone  I  was  so  overcome  by  mental  depression,  I  never 
dared  carry  even  a  pocket-knife.  .  .  .  The  time  came  when 
I  could  look  upon  her  grave  without  breaking  down  utterly 
and  confess  aloud:  '  My  heart  lies  buried  there.'  But  when 
Greene  died  and  I  was  expected  to  speak  over  his  fresh-made 
grave,  I  could  not  do  it.  Then,  long,  long  afterward,  as  we 
measure  time  when  young,  the  tears  ran  down  my  face  as 
I  looked  at  the  loam  and  gravel  resting  on  him  who  had 
saved  me  from  myself.  ...  I  made  repeated  efforts  to  say 
something,  but  at  the  last  could  only  stride  away,  sobbing. 
.  .  .  The  effect  of  that  grief,  of  a  melancholy  that  my  friends 
admitted  bordered  on  insanity,  has  been  permanent  upon 
me.  Those  who  know  me  well  have  shown  me  a  forbearance 
and  indulgence  I  shall  never  be  able  to  repay.  .  .  ." 

"  Forgive  me  for  saying:  Yet  you  are  happily-married 
and  a  father.  .  .  ." 

"  For  which  I  owe  an  everlasting  debt  to  Joshua  Speed. 
...  I  am  painfully  conscious  of  my  own  shortcomings  and 
have  much  to  be  thankful  for  in  being  granted  a  degree  of 
domestic  happiness  beyond  my  deserts — beyond  my  limited 
power  to  have  earned  without  Mrs.  Lincoln's  true  help." 

"  I  would  give  everything,"  Walt  said  brokenly,  "  to  be 
able  to  utter  an  equivalent  of  that." 

"  Speed  a  second  time  saved  me.  Greene  had  saved  my 
life  and  Speed,  by  his  advice  and  example,  made  it  possible 
for  me  to  go  some  way  toward  the  construction  of  a  reason- 


THE   ANSWERER  361 

able  happiness.  In  the  year  following  my  great  loss,  in  my 
upset  condition,  I  was  involved  with  a  woman  slightly  older 
than  myself — long  since  happily  married  and  now  living 
and,  I  think,  feeling  friendly  toward  me.  There  is  no  need 
to  speak  of  her  further,  as  she  wisely  discovered  we  were  not 
suited  to  each  other.  A  year  or  two  passed  before  I  met  my 
wife.  We  had  agreed  to  marry  when  I  one  day  wrote  a 
letter  to  break  it  off." 

Lincoln  hesitated  a  moment,  continuing: 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  will  quite  grasp  what  I  mean 
when  I  tell  you:  The  prospect  of  marriage  had  always 
filled  me  with  strange  perturbation ;  the  idea,  the  conception 
of  the  married  state,  was  a  subject  of  wonder  and  dread  and 
anxiety  to  me  in  a  manner  I  could  not  then  have  explained 
and  cannot  even  now.  In  contemplating  what,  it  seemed 
to  me,  must  be  a  happiness  nothing  short  of  heavenly  or  a 
horror  not  to  be  painted,  I  had  not  always  a  very  good  con 
trol  of  myself.  In  such  a  mood,  at  last  apparently  settled 
and  persistent,  I  composed  this  letter  and  showed  it  to 
Speed. 

"He  told  me,  what  I  saw  was  true,  that  if  I  had  the 
courage  of  a  man  I  would  not  write  her  on  such  a  subject, 
but  see  her  and  speak.  This  I  did.  When  she  cried  it 
seemed  natural  to  kiss  and  try  to  comfort  her;  but  it  took 
Speed  to  point  out  to  me  that  in  so  doing  I  had  as  good  as 
retracted  my  words  and  renewed  my  promise  to  marry. 

"  But  on  the  first  of  the  year,  on  New  Year's,  1841,  I 
seemed  to  go  utterly  to  pieces.  For  weeks  afterward  it  was 
uncertain  to  me  whether  I  should  die  or  grow  better;  my 


362  THE   ANSWERER 

foreboding  was  I  should  not  live;  my  only  certainty  was, 
I  could  not  remain  as  I  was;  and  must  either  be  better  or 
die. 

"  The  thing  which  saved  me  was  Speed's  own  experience, 
which  began  shortly  with  the  prospect  of  marriage  for  him. 
Beginning  to  suffer  the  searchings  and  anxieties  I  had  suf 
fered — that  we  had  somewhat  shared  in  our  nervous  dread 
on  the  matter — he  confided  in  me,  as  before,  and  it  became 
my  task  to  reassure  him.  I  had  to  tell  him  his  painful,  re 
curring  apprehension — that  he  did  not  love  Fanny  as  he 
should — was  nonsense;  and  I  had  further  to  prove  it  non 
sense  by  showing  him  that  as  an  insufficient  lover  he  could 
never  have  courted  her.  When  he  thought  he  had  reasoned 
himself  into  that,  I  asked  him  to  consider  whether,  in  fact, 
he  had  not  found  himself  unable  to  reason  his  way  out  of  it. 
I  asked  him  to  judge  what  earthly  consideration  he  would 
take  to  find  her  despising  him  .  .  .  and  so,  by  degrees,  it 
was  given  me  to  bring  him  into  an  honest  perception  of  the 
actual  case.  I  was  helped  by  Fanny's  illness  for  a  short  time 
— nothing  serious.  Speed  was  dreadfully  worried;  I  wrote 
him  his  present  anxieties  ought  to  banish  forever  his  doubts 
as  to  the  truth  of  his  affection;  I  suspect  they  did.  It  was 
my  conviction,  expressed  in  a  letter  written  him  a  few  days 
after  he  became  Fanny's  husband,  that  all  his  nervous  ter 
ror  and  self-torture  would  vanish  in  a  few  months,  leaving 
him  as  happy  as  any  man  alive. 

"  I  was  right.  In  less  than  two  months  he  wrote  me  that 
he  was  far  happier  than  ever  he  had  expected  to  be.  As  I 
well  knew  his  expectations,  like  my  own,  were  probably  ex 
travagant,  I  exclaimed  joyfully:  ' Enough,  dear  Lord!' 


THE   ANSWERER  363 

For  I  had  long  believed  it  our  peculiar  misfortune,  his  and 
mine,  to  dream  dreams  of  a  felicity  exceeding  anything  that 
earth  could  realize.  .  .  .  That  was  in  the  spring  of  '42.  In 
the  fall  I  wrote  Speed  again,  somewhat  as  follows: 

" '  The  severe  suffering  you  endured  for  the  six  months 
till  your  marriage-day,  you  never  tried  to  hide  from  me;  I 
understood  it  well.  You  have  now  been  the  husband  of  a 
dear  woman  about  eight  months;  I  know  you  to  be  happier 
than  the  day  you  married  her,  but  I  want  to  ask  a  close 
question!  Are  you  now  in  feeling  as  well  as  in  judgment 
glad  you  are  married  as  you  are?  I  think  you  will  pardon 
from  me  this  question  which,  from  any  one  else  alive,  you 
would  very  properly  not  tolerate.' 

"  Mr.  Whitman,  I  had  his  answer  which  naturally  I  should 
have  no  right  to  repeat  even  to  you;  I  must  make  my  own 
confidences  but  cannot  include  another's.  You  will  draw 
the  correct  conclusion  from  the  fact  that  a  month  after  thus 
writing  him  I  was  married." 

The  look  of  unhappiness  on  Walt's  face  greatly  moved  the 
President. 

"  You  are  thinking,"  said  Lincoln,  "  that  in  some  such 
fashion,  with  the  aid  of  some  such  friendly  example,  you 
might  have  been  able  to  construct  a  happiness  similar  to 
mine.  .  .  .  Walt,  it  is  an  every-day  sort  of  happiness,  a 
c  working  '  happiness  as  one  would  say;  '  practicable  '  is  the 
phrase  I  think  employed  on  the  stage  to  describe  such  sets 
and  scene-shifts  as  are  not  merely  background  but  can  be 
used — a  door  you  can  walk  through,  a  door  that  is  not 
merely  painted  on  the  backdrop,  is  a  ( practicable '  door. 
...  In  a  world  where  a  good  deal  is  simply  painted  on  the 


364  THE   ANSWERER 

backdrop,  I  found  a  practicable  door.  That  is  my  married 
happiness.  .  .  ." 

"  Could  it  have  been  mine?  Oh,  could  it  have  been 
mine!  "  An  unanswerable  question;  an  unfulfillable  wish. 

Walt's  last  words  were: 

"  Never  think  of  me  without  also  thinking  of  her.  Think 
of  me  as  standing  outside  the  whitewashed  palings,  close  to 
a  lilac-bush  tall-growing,  held  by  its  mastering  odor,  while 
her  dear  figure  moves  across  the  dooryard  fronting  the  farm 
house.  Look  for  a  great  star  that  droops  in  the  western 
sky;  listen  for  the  voice  of  a  hermit  thrush.  ...  In  the 
swamp,  in  secluded  recesses,  a  shy  and  hidden  bird,  in  notes 
bashful  and  tender,  singing  by  himself  a  song.  .  .  ." 

He  went  forth  to  the  hospitals,  to  the  spreading  floors 
where  lay  so  many  boys,  so  many  motherless,  so  many  gently 
welcoming  a  Dark  Mother,  gliding  near  with  soft  feet.  .  .  . 


END  OF  PART  THREE 


PART  FOUR 
THE  ANSWERER 


VERY  early  in  the  morning  of  April  15,  1865,  word  came  ta 
the  Whitman  household  (as  to  the  thousands  of  other  Brook 
lyn  households;  and  shortly  to  the  million  of  American 
households)  that  Abraham  Lincoln  had  surrendered  his  life 
in  the  service  of  a  united  America. 

Walt  was  home  with  his  mother.  Though  the  usual  hearty 
breakfast  was  placed  steaming  on  the  table,  it  went  un 
touched.  The  mother  and  sons  swallowed  a  little  coffee, 
but  none  was  able  to  drain  the  cup. 

The  day  was  a  silent  succession  of  newspaper  extras, 
rapidly  and  feverishly  scanned;  then  read  and  re-read  and 
read  minutely,  iteratively,  mechanically  one  time  more. 

The  mother  alone  exerted  herself.  In  a  dazed  way  she 
went  about  the  preparation  of  dinner  and  supper;  at  inter 
vals,  stopping  and  throwing  her  apron  over  her  head,  she 
would  break  into  weak  sobbing.  When  the  food  was  ready 
she  put  it  on  the  table.  But  she  did  not  seat  herself  at  the 
table;  her  sons  did  not  come  to  the  table;  she  had  not  the 
heart  to  summon  them,  and  after  an  uncertain  wait,  trance- 
like,  she  bore  the  food  away  again. 

Walt  scarcely  stirred  the  day  long.  At  night,  when  the 
others  had  moved  drearily  to  bed,  he  sat  looking  straight 

365 


366  THE   ANSWERER 

before  him.  My  book,  Drum  Taps,  hymns  of  the  war,  is 
nearly  ready  to  put  on  the  press.  My  book  is  now  worth 
less.  .  .  .  Stop  the  press;  tear  up  the  book.  .  .  .  Him  I 
love  lies  murdered.  The  sweetest,  wisest  soul  oj  all  my  days 
and  lands  .  .  . 

The  Brooklyn  house  had  a  little  yard;  on  this  unusually 
warm  Fourth  Month  evening,  Walt  sat  beside  an  open  win 
dow  through  which  came  with  sudden  stealth,  like  a  wistful 
caress,  the  sharp  scent  of  flowering  lilacs.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
bush  of  purple  lilac  in  the  yard  which  had  blossomed  for  the 
first  time  that  day,  but  he  had  not  noticed  the  cluster;  he 
had  noticed  nothing.  .  .  . 

Lilac,  on  the  breath  of  the  night  (a  dark  night  with  but  a 
single  star;  a  tearful  night  that  lowered  over  a  desolated 
country).  Lilac  .  .  .  the  ever-living  memory  of  the 
dead.  .  .  . 

The  faint,  sweet  and  terrible  intoxication  of  the  odor  crept 
into  his  blood.  No  man  but  Lincoln  had  ever  known  .  .  . 

None  but  Lincoln  ever  should  know.  A  secret  shared  with 
the  dead  was  beautiful  ...  a  secret  of  love,  a  secret  of 
death,  a  secret  of  immortality,  which  is  the  perpetual 
triumph  of  love  over  death  .  .  . 

He  lifted  up  a  transfigured  countenance  and  spoke  to  the 
dead. 

"  You  shall  not  go  unsung  to  your  burial,"  he  whispered. 


In  the  still  house,  the  lamp  freshly  lighted,  he  set  to  work. 

I  one  time  thought  to  compose  on  the  theme  of  you  an 

epic  of  all  that  should  make  America  imperishable;  I  one 


THE   ANSWERER  367 

time  thought  you  should  become  for  me  the  incomparable 
subject  of  work  to  set  beside  Milton's  or  Dante's.  Once  I 
dreamed  of  proclaiming  your  greatness  of  stature  and  your 
nobility  in  action  and  your  grandeur  as  a  human  soul. 

But  I  heard,  as  few  or  none  can  have  heard,  from  your 
own  lips  the  story  of  your  life,  its  early  tragedy  and  your 
fought-for  happiness.  ...  I  heard  how  tenderly  you  had 
loved  and  how  irretrievably  you  had  lost;  I  know,  for  you 
told  me,  the  pitifully-measured  whole  of  the  human  love 
that  should  have  been  overflowingly  yours.  To  me  you  are 
no  longer  the  subject  of  heroic  poetry  but  the  theme  of  a 
lament  such  as  the  still-living  lines  to  Lycidas.  ...  A  bu 
rial  hymn,  a  threnody,  I  compose  for  you.  A  few  simple 
pictures,  the  simple  expression  of  an  unrestrained  emotion, 
I  offer  you.  .  .  . 


When  lilacs  last  in  the  door-yard  bloom'd  .  .  . 

(Dear,  dead  friend;  you  will  not  have  forgotten.) 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  door-yard  bloom'd, 

And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in  the  night, 

I  mourn'd — and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning  spring. 

This  spring  night  is  like  that  other  how  many  years  ago. 
The  same  star  .  .  .  alone.  I  think  that  star  is  become 
you. 

O  ever-returning  spring!  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring; 
Lilac  blooming  perennial,  and  drooping  star  in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

I  have  sounded  the  first  strain.  Now  I  write  down,  with 
out  plan  as  to  what  it  shall  contain: 


368  THE   ANSWERER 

n 

Lilac!  Oh,  this  grief  is  too  much  for  me.  It  must  burst 
out,  utter  itself,  in  a  flood  of  pitiful-pale  words.  I  must 
give  way  to  it,  else  I  can  go  no  farther.  .  .  . 

O  powerful,  western,  fallen  star! 

O  shades  of  night!     O  moody,  tearful  night! 

O  great  star  disappear' d!     O  the  black  murk  that  hides  the  star! 

O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless!     O  helpless  soul  of  me! 

0  harsh  surrounding  cloud,  that  will  not  free  my  soul! 

...  I  must,  MUST  control  this.  .  .  .  There  is  one  way, 
and  one  only,  I  can  do  that.  Without  further  prelude,  let 
me  conjure  up  the  lasting  memory  of  my  own  life.  Let  me 
make  a  simple  picture — all,  all  but  her  shall  be  included. 
Let  me  pay  you  this  as  my  dearest  tribute  after  all.  Let  me 
share  with  you  in  death  the  secret,  wounding  yet  delicious, 

1  shared  with  you,  and  with  you  only,  in  life.  .  .  .  Others 
may  read,  will  read,  and  innocently  suspect  nothing;  will  not 
guess  the  presence  of  her  of  whom  you  will  know.  .  .  . 

Isolated,  by  itself,  without  further  preluding: 

in 

In  the  door-yard  fronting  an  old  farm-house,  near  the  white- 

wash'd  palings, 
Stands  the  lilac  bush,  tall-growing,  with  heart-shaped  leaves  of 

rich  green, 
With  many  a  pointed  blossom,  rising,  delicate,  with  the  perfume 

strong  I  love, 
With  every  leaf  a  miracle   (a  Fourth  or  Fifth  Month  miracle) 

.  .  .  and  from  this  bush  in  the  door-yard, 
With  delicate-color' d  blossoms,  and  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich 

green, 
A  sprig,  with  its  flower,  I  break. 

The  lilac  for  her,  the  western  star  for  you  .  .  .  and  mine 
be  the  throat  of  the  hermit  thrust,  a  throat  that  bleeds  as  it 


THE   ANSWERER  369 

sings,  a  throat  that,  could  it  not  sing,  would  bleed  to  death 
silently.  .  .  . 

IV 

In  the  swamp,  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary,  the  thrush, 

The  hermit,  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settlements, 

Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat! 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life — (for  well,  dear  brother,  I  know 

If  thou  wast  not  gifted  to  sing,  thou  would' st  surely  die). 

In  this  inadequate  symphony,  I  have  finished  the  first 
movement.  I  have  stated  all  three  of  my  themes — lilac  and 
star  and  thrush.  The  lamenting  largo  stands  complete. 
Now  must  I  sing  maestoso,  with  beauty  and  majesty,  my 
funeral  march — my  second  movement  a  funeral  march  as  in 
Beethoven's  Third  Symphony,  composed  to  the  memory  and 
honoring  of  the  Hero. 

3 

He  wrote  steadily,  with  few  pauses  and  almost  no  altera 
tions,  the  fifth  and  sixth  sections,  each  an  intricate,  un 
broken  melodic  curve,  from,  Over  the  breast  of  the  spring, 
the  land,  amid  cities  to,  Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin; 
and  from,  Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets  to,  / 
give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac.  After  some  hesitation,  he  set 
down,  at  the  opening  of  VII.  the  words: 

(Nor  for  you,  for  one,  alone  .  .  . 

But  his  final  feeling  was  that  this,  by  itself,  left  unguarded 
the  door  of  their  secret;  and  so,  rather  than  erase  anything 


370  THE   ANSWERER 

so  true,  he  felt  to  enlarge  it  beyond  the  possibility  of  prying 
detection  by  the  smooth  (yet  honest)  sequent  line: 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring  .  .  .) 

Yes!  that  was  honest!  Blossoms  and  branches  to  her 
coffin,  and  her  son's;  to  the  coffin  that  enclosed  the  body  of 
Floride's  brother ;  to  Joel  Skidmore's  coffin  and  to  Selah  Mul- 
ford's;  to  Oscar  Wilber's;  to  each  and  to  all.  To  the  in 
numerable  boxes  of  pine  boards  freshly  cut  that  had  been 
interred  daily,  North  and  South,  and  were  interring  now. 

The  confidence  reposed  in  him  by  Lincoln  tempted  him 
to  a  dozen  lines,  which  he  numbered  VIII.,  in  which,  with 
the  symbol  of  the  western  star,  he  could  recall  their  in 
timacy,  their  secret-sharing. ...  He  set  down  a  tentative  IX. 

In  all  this,  he  told  himself,  I  am  truly  two  persons;  there 
is  the  Whitman  who  sings  the  stainless  dead  and  there  is 
the  human  person  whom  Lincoln  trusted  and  tried  to  help; 
did  so  wonderfully  help!  And  I  am  torn,  this  moment,  be 
tween  the  two.  .  .  He  wrote: 


Sing  on,  there  in  the  swamp! 

0  singer,  bashful  and  tender!    I  hear  your  notes — /  hear  your 

call; 

1  hear — /  come  presently — /  understand  you; 

'But  a  moment  I  linger — for  the  lustrous  star  has  detain'd  me; 
The  star,  my  comrade  departing,  holds  and  detains  me. 


4 

Following  in  his  thought  the  musical  analogy,  the  sym 
phonic  structure,  or,  condensed  in  form,  the  method  of  the 
sonata,  he  decided  upon  a  re-statement  and  variation  of  his 
principal  theme,  the  dead  Lincoln.  He  did  it,  at  the  same 


THE   ANSWERER  371 

time  enlarging  the  scope  of  his  possible  re-statement,  by 
three  lines,  questioning: 

O  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved? 
And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that  has 

gone? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be,  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love? 

And,  resorting  to  inversion,  with  an  immediate  spontaneous 
echo  he  answered  his  last  question  first. 

Sea  winds  .  .  . 

.  .  .  with  these,  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 

I  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

The  merit  of  the  loose  analogy  to  music  was  in  the  freedom 
it  gave;  a  freedom  and  looseness  and  largeness  which  could 
not  be  compassed  in  the  imitation  of  any  accepted  model  of 
verse.  He  would  take  advantage  of  this  for  the  widest  pos 
sible  effect;  at  once;  and  with  a  variation  so  original  as 
partly  to  constitute  a  new  motif,  a  fourth  theme: 

O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls?  .  .  . 
To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love? 

At  last,  he  had  it!  the  full  sweep  of  America,  the  splendor 
of  all  outdoors,  the  eternal  cycle  of  day  and  night,  to  be 
fitly  introduced  as  the  sole  worthy  adornment  of  that  burial- 
house,  most  consecrated  of  the  nation.  Now  his  mood 
changed  to  a  sunny  transport  at  the  glimpse  of  wide  horizons. 

In  the^  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the  river,  with  a 
wind-dapple  here  and  there; 

The  ecstacy,  the  exaltation  such  as  he  had  never  in  com 
position  before  known,  culminated  in  six  lines  which  seemed 


372  THE   ANSWERER 

to  him,  as  he  re-read  them,  miraculous  (I  feel  so  quite  hum 
bly;  I  cannot  conceive  how  I  came  to  set  down  such  a  pic 
ture  in  so  few  strokes ;  but  if  I  overvalue  it,  something  may 
be  forgiven  me  for  the  intensity  with  which  I  was  moved 
as  I  wrote  the  words) : 

Lo!  the  most  excellent  sun,  so  calm  and  haughty; 

The  violet  and  purple  morn,  with  just-felt  breezes; 

The  gentle,  soft-born,  measureless  light; 

The  miracle,  spreading,  bathing  all — the  fulfill'd  noon; 

The  coming  eve,  delicious — the  welcome  night,  and  the  stars, 

Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

...  He  stopped  and  sat  motionless  for  an  hour,  from 
sheer  exhaustion. 

At  length,  resuming,  he  progressed  with  an  interweaving 
of  his  material  already  present,  venturing,  however,  another 
direct  allusion  to  Esther — the  most  daring  of  all,  it  struck 
him,  but  he  let  it  stand  and  even  amplified  it. 

Then,  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side  of 
me,  All  will  understand  this  to  be  Lincoln. 

And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking  the  other  side  of 
me,  May  not  some  day,  with  finger  pointing  to  that  veiled 
and  shadowy  figure  of  you,  Esther — may  not  some  day  there 
come  one  who  will  ask:  "  Who  is  that?  "  .  .  .  But,  no;  he 
will  not  ask;  something  within  him  will  give  him  the  answer, 
unasked.  .  .  . 

And  I,  in  the  middle,  as  with  companions,  and  as  holding  the 
hands  of  companions  .  .  . 

One  last,  cautious,  identifying-revealing  touch  he  permitted 
himself — the  coincidence  of  his  chant  with  the  song  of  the 
thrush: 

And  the  voice  of  my  Spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 


THE   ANSWERER  373 

He  was  ready  to  compose  the  Death  Carol,  to  be  followed 
by  a  short  passage,  allegro  furioso,  depicting  the  wreckage 
of  the  battlefields.  A  brief  coda,  or  closing  section,  would 
complete  the  poem;  my  superbest,  he  said  to  himself  in  a 
weary  whisper. 

As  a  preliminary — for  he  could  not  finish  now,  but  must 
have  rest;  though  to  hope  for  dreamless  sleep  was  probably 
vain — he  set  down  certain  guiding  lines.  The  Death  Carol 
would  begin  with: 

Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night  .  .  . 

Embodied  in  this  chant  would  be  the  line  (initial  line  of 
one  stanza,  it  was  likely) : 

Dark  Mother,  always  gliding  near,  with  soft  feet  .  .  . 

And,  perhaps  as  the  last  line  of  all;  anyway,  very  nearly 
the  last  line  of  the  whole  poem: 

Lilac  and  star  and  bird,  twined  with  the  chant  of  my  soul. 

5 

He  hid  away  the  sheets  of  paper  and  went  out  into  the 
yard.  The  Fourth  Month  dawn  was  breaking. 

On  the  lilac  bush  had  blossomed  only  the  single  purple 
cluster. 

He  went  to  the  bush  and  stood  there,  inhaling  the  fra 
grance.  He  lifted  his  face  to  the  sky  and  cried  out,  shak- 
enly: 

"  Oh,  my  dead!    I  try  to  answer!  " 


YB  68649 


